


What’s Past is Prologue

by alyxpoe, lobstergirl



Category: Dexter (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, British Government, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sci-Fi, The Hub - Freeform, Torchwood - Freeform, men having sex, men kissing, mystrade, the rift - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack Harkness is reminded that ‘outside the government, beyond the police’ does not agree with the British Government at all; in which a London-based consulting detective is as trying as any Weevil; in which the right kind of doctor doesn’t always travel by means of a blue police box; and in which a stranded traveler both learns and teaches the lesson that no man is an island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> From a certain social networking site with a side order of telephone call and a smattering of e-mails between two crazy fangirls comes this brainchild. We have nursed it, changed it's nappies and now we present it to you all cleaned up and ready to play.

 

> “There are many impossible things in this universe that cannot be easily categorized. So many more objects and such that humankind _wants_ and is convinced that it _must_ have, yet there are many truths that perhaps humans are not meant to _know_ but rather to experience.”
> 
> -excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

**Prologue**

“It’s already too far gone to save.” Doctor Watson states to the man standing behind him. He receives a short grunt in reply. “I think I felt the object you were talking about, though.”

Again, there is no answer but John can feel the heavy weight of eyes studying his every move. It is familiar in a most emotional way; John refuses to acknowledge the feeling, instead turning back to the task at hand. A faint cold breeze blows around them, lifting the fringe of ash-blond hair from the doctor’s brow and cooling the sweat there. He is far from cold, however, as the creature beneath him is radiating a strange level of heat.

John Watson is elbow-deep in the chest cavity of a bright blue Kel’fish. Its eyes are wide open; red, oddly pentagonal pupils frozen in mid-dilation. In the center of its rather humanoid forehead is a perfectly shaped circular entrance wound from an antique hand gun. The thing smells like cairn and its insides are repugnantly squishy. If John were anyone other than who he is, he would be positive that this is some joke being played on him by his mates; he trusts his hands, though, and accepts that it is all too real.

John is kneeling on the hard ground beside the creature, trying hard to uncover the strange object it swallowed that ultimately killed it. He looks down into the mushy purple innards of the creature just as his gloved fingers close around something smooth and hard; he removes it very slowly, finally holding it up to the dying light of day. It appears to be a titanium signet ring with a clear jewel set in the smooth top. The jewel catches the orange light of the sunset and it glitters back as liquid gold. For a moment, John is spellbound.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” A smooth American voice says over John’s head as sturdy fingers pluck the ring from John’s hand. His palm suddenly feels very, very empty.

“You’re welcome, Jack, I think.” John stands carefully, easing his weight off his bad leg and gratefully accepting the arm of the other man to balance on. John peels the gloves off his hands and looks around, worried about simply dropping them.

“Ah, we’ll get that.” A pretty Asian woman appears as if out of nowhere holding a large black box, her breath puffing into a small cloud in the frigid March air. She opens the box and holds it out to John who drops in his used gloves. Jack holds the ring up one more time to look at it, shakes his head then adds it to the weird collection. It makes a _tink_ sound as it hits the bottom of the box.

“Thanks, Tosh.” Jack offers to the woman’s retreating back. She nods her head as an answer, her glossy black hair shiny against the growing darkness.

“’til next time, then, Doctor?” Jack beams at John and holds out his hand.

John nods and shakes the offered hand; each man gripping the other’s tightly, using the action to say what they will not.

“Sure, why not. ‘t’s not like I’ve much else to do at the moment, since…” He shrugs and does not exactly smile; the look on his face is more like relief.

Jack claps John on the shoulder as they walk in silence out of a sparse grove of trees and back towards the road. A shiny navy blue sedan is idling on the shoulder, a man in a golf cap standing with the back door open. He nods in John’s direction and John holds up his hand, asking him to wait just a bit more. The driver tilts his chin again and moves around to get into the seat, leaving the door open and waiting.

“Actually, Jack, I should be thanking you.” John’s expression is sad, turned inward.

Jack, being who he is, can say nothing. He has come to genuinely respect Doctor Watson as a surgeon, a soldier, and as a consulting member of his team. In his tightly-guarded heart, Jack wants so badly to spill a deep secret to John that will affect the other man; in his mind, however, he knows that there are some secrets that should never be divulged until the time is right. They shake hands again and Jack grasps John’s arm tightly, the closest to a hug the two of them will get. John may not be privy to all of Torchwood’s secrets yet, but he seems to inherently understand a few things about Jack, and so Jack lets Doctor Watson have his distance.

Besides, John’s heart clearly belongs to someone else; it is not just that it is _lost_ , because that would imply that it can be _found_. Jack knows that some things just have to come back in their own time.

John gives a short little wave to the brown-haired man in the long, dark blue wool coat as he slides into the car. In an instant, he is gone. Full darkness settles around the secluded lake and the Welsh countryside that accompanies it.

*

Sherlock Holmes fights his most important battles alone, as he always has done. He scuffles, scraps and downright dogfights his way in and out of more trouble in a few months than he has in his entire life. One day it is finally over. Like a powerful god of storms, he will return to the land of the living in a blaze of glory.  

Out of it all, everything he has done and had to do to stay alive, all he wants is to come home.

 _Home_ , as simple a word as _John_.

One day soon, he will have to answer for many, many trespasses, but for now he is ready to face the cacophonic music of his best friend’s broken heart.

“John, I am here.” His warm baritone carries through empty corridors as he steps through a doorway and back into John’s life, a promise of _forever_ riding on his swishing coattails. There is anger, arguments and finally, finally, a tearful promise in a kiss that changes _everything_.

John’s life begins anew but he does not give up those tasks that have helped him out of the darkness. He has tasted what lies beyond what most people consider ‘normal’ and found that he enjoys it. John holds out his arms and allows the eye of the storm back into his heart and wonders how he can maintain the balance of everything his life has come to be.

*

The man fights his way back into consciousness only to find that he is lying on his back on a hard and unyielding surface. He slowly blinks his eyes open and immediately closes them again. Bright colors drill straight into his optic nerves. A wet cough forces its way up through his chest so he forces himself up as he hacks into his hand, eyes firmly closed. When the pain subsides, he wipes the moisture from his lips and scowls at the foul taste of lake water in his mouth. _Where did that come from?_

Besides the brackish taste against his tongue, he slowly realizes that his hair and clothing are soaked through. Somewhere close by the sound of running water captures what small bit of attention he can spare. He struggles and manages to force himself upright, an action that eases the ache in his chest. Of course, it does nothing for the throbbing at his temples; this pain forces him to lean forward with his head in his hands.

After a while, he carefully lifts his head, opens his eyes once more, shielding them with his hands and when they adjust to the colorful lights, he lowers his hands and tries to make sense of his surroundings. He is sitting on a bench at the edge of an oval space, a plaza of sorts, surrounded by illuminated pillars. _How did he get here? What is this place?_ His mind is a complete blank, a sea of unnamed faces and landscapes; memories that keep circling back to water, always water. He tries to reach into his subconscious and retrieve those strange, faded memories but as soon as he begins groping for them, he is shut down with a wave of nausea unlike anything he has ever felt before. A soul-searing groan is ripped from between his teeth, his body convulses against the bench and its old metal bindings squawk under the onslaught.

He reaches out to clutch at the air as if to balance against nothing just before he slides off of the bench and into a heap on the unforgiving concrete.  At least his unconscious brain feels no pain. “Hello, are you alright, sir? Hello? Can you hear me?”

A woman’s voice reaches out to him, just as he is about to give in to oblivion’s sweet siren song. Once more his mind struggles to the surface, away from the merciful blackness where everything is silent and pain free. He squints up into a pair of hazel eyes that look at him with concern.

“Do you know where you are? What happened to you?” She speaks with a soft voice and a heavy, unfamiliar accent. With a sure hand she takes his pulse and peers into his eyes. "Your name, sir, do you know your name?”

“My name…” He tries to sit up but another wave of nausea makes him wince and he slumps back on the cold ground. The woman’s voice drifts in and out of his consciousness.

“Jack. It’s me, Gwen. I need your help, quickly. Bring Ianto. I can’t do this alone.”

She feels for the man’s pulse again. It’s weak but steady, as is his heartbeat. His shirt is badly stained on the left side but when she unbuttons it to check for wounds, his skin is smooth and unscathed. She frowns and tries to remember if there was anything on the news about a storm or a ship in distress, anything to explain this.

Approaching steps make her look up.

“Look at what the tide brought in,” says a mocking voice behind her. “Finders keepers, Gwen? I don’t think Rhys would approve if you brought that home with you.”

“Jack.” Her voice takes on an exasperated note even as she cracks a half-smile at the playful tone. “Can you be serious just once? He needs our help, don’t you see that?”

“What he needs is an ambulance,” observes the second man and takes his mobile from his pocket. “And possibly a week’s worth of pain killers,” he mutters under his breath.

“No,” Gwen stands up and places a hand on his arm before he makes the call. “Jack, I want you to take a closer look. There’s something strange about him.”

“No, there’s not. He’s just a big guy in wet clothes near the Water Tower. Probably a stag party gone wrong and his head will be killing him by tomorrow morning. Ianto’s right, we should call an ambulance before he catches pneumonia and dies on our doorstep.”

He turns to go, long greatcoat swirling dramatically. It’s that moment the stranger opens his eyes again and croaks something that neither of them is able to understand. Gwen immediately crouches down and places a hand on his shoulder.

“What was that? What did you say?”

The man coughs convulsively, and then croaks out, “Isaak. My name… is Isaak.” He reaches for her wrist. “Where am I? Who are you?” Red-rimmed, watery green-grey eyes that seem much older than his body plead for answers she cannot give.

Gwen frees her wrist gently but firmly from his grasping fingers.

“You are in Cardiff, and my name is Gwen Cooper.”

“Cardiff? I don’t understand.” Isaak’s eyes threaten to close again and Gwen gently shakes him.

“Stay with me, Isaak. What do you remember?”

Her soft-eyed empathetic expression touches him somewhere deep inside; somewhere cold that wants to be warm.

His brow furrows as he tries to remember. As he blindly gropes for memories that will not come, another wave of nausea washes over him and he barely manages to turn away from Gwen as he retches painfully. It hurts even more when all he manages to choke out is a stream of dirty water. His throat burns.

“I fell,” he whispers hoarsely, “I remember falling.”

The younger man kneels down next to him and brings something to his face that looks like an extra slim mobile phone and outlines his upper body. The device makes a beeping sound and the young man’s eyes grow round as saucers.

“That is not possible,” he breathes, quickly stands up and hands the device to the other man.

“Look at that, Jack,” he urges. Jack takes one look and whistles through his teeth. His face has lost all signs of mockery as the turns towards Gwen and Isaak.

“We need to get him underground. Now.”

It takes the combined strength of all three of them to haul Isaak to his feet and all but drag him to the Water Tower. Jack steps on the tile that will take him into the Hub and motions Ianto to help him balance the dead weight of the tall man between them.

*

Mycroft Holmes yanks at his tie in the bevel-edged mirror over the fireplace in his sitting room. Even though he only has a conference call to attend to this morning, there is absolutely no reason to look the fat slob his brother always accuses him of being. Thin lips flatten into a line and auburn eyebrows knit tightly as he studies his reflection. This particular call is the first in a seemingly endless row of tightly scheduled catch-up calls between the branches he oversees and serves to pave the way for the upcoming annual strategy meeting he does anything but look forward to.

Needs must, however. Mycroft adjusts the dark maroon tie one more time then brushes his hand against a stubborn hair at the top of his head. Finally satisfied, he moves away from the mirror to settle at his desk. He fiddles with his phone, standing it on its side against his palm and then letting it clatter against the wood.

No music plays in his office so the sound of the front door opening downstairs travels clearly through the partially-open door. The heavy tread of booted feet bounds towards the office until it stops and the silvery head and broad shoulders of Greg Lestrade poke through.

“Good morning.” Greg smiles.

“Good morning, Gregory. May I point out that it will most certainly be a much better morning for you, even with your ‘round-the-clock stakeout.” Mycroft drops the phone against the desk one more time and swivels in his chair to look at the clock.

“Hmmm…must be your super-super-secret chain of phone conferences. Well, then, for all that, I’m going to go take a shower. Ta.” With that, Greg disappears back down the hallway.

Mycroft counts his partner’s steps to the bathroom and listens to him start the water, seriously contemplating calling Anthea and having her reschedule the call because even exhausted, his favorite DI oozes an unmistakable invitation to do some serious ravishing. Just as he begins to dial her number on his mobile, the shiny black telephone on his desk buzzes. He wrinkles his long nose and sighs before picking it up from the hand rest.

Using his most bossy voice, as smooth and soft as well-oiled leather despite thinking such unchaste thoughts of Gregory only moments ago, Mycroft says into the speaker, “Good morning, Captain Harkness.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> “When one experiences these preposterous things first hand, they tend to leave indelible impressions on one’s mind and, by extension, one’s heart; impressions that change the course of not only a single life but those around it, for better or for worse…once that wheel begins rolling, there is no turning back, no pause, no rewind, and no snack break. As ridiculous as it may be, perhaps just a big cosmic joke on the living…the **only** thing that still exists in time is the forward momentum which can erase the joys and the miseries of life. It can be a painless transition but…sometimes it hurts like hell.”
> 
> -an excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

**Chapter One**

“Johhnnnnn.”

A deep voice purrs into John’s ear as a naked, almost-smooth chest vibrates against his equally bare back. John tries hard to ignore it and burrow back down into the pillows. When a hot, wet tongue swipes at the back of his neck he knows he has lost the battle. Perhaps not the war, though, since two can play at this game. John grins into the pillow and arches his back in such a way that Sherlock’s morning wood rubs against John’s bare ass. 

Sherlock groans low as his teeth nip at the place on John’s neck that he has just licked; his weight is balanced on his palms, one arm on either side of John’s shoulders. He learned the hard way that John doesn’t mind the occasional surprise upon waking, but to simply appear and rest all his weight against a sleeping battle-hardened soldier is asking for trouble. When John arches his hips upward, Sherlock grinds his downward.

John can no longer ignore the electric sparks of desire coiling in his belly. He turns over and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, opening his mouth against plush lips in order to taste sweetened tea and chocolate digestives. He steals a peak at the clock on the nightstand as Sherlock is sitting up to straddle him and wonders how anyone can function on four hours of sleep after an all-night stakeout.

“Solved the case, then?” John asks as he pulls himself up against the headboard so he can lean in and lick up Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock only answers with a hum and another roll of his hips. “Sex now, case later,” he whispers against John’s mouth.

In reply, John reaches down and grabs a firm round butt cheek in each hand. Sherlock hums again and rakes the edges of his teeth along the outside of John’s ear. John shivers and bucks upward, wondering just how ready Sherlock could possibly be.

“Very ready.” Sherlock pulls back and stares into John’s eyes.

Without a doubt, this is John’s absolute favorite Sherlock: when those usually hard jade orbs turn into molten green fire for him. He shifts more and blindly reaches out to open the drawer, working hard not to leave his lover’s intense gaze and fumbling about for the bottle of lube he knows he put in there a couple of days ago. When his fingers find it, he grins but Sherlock continues to look _predatory_. John clicks the cap open and turns it over to squirt it onto his fingers, his brain already in melt-down mode.

Sherlock rolls his hips and attaches himself to the side of John’s neck. John lets his now wet fingers travel up the insides of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock throws his head back and moans quite obscenely just as two things happen simultaneously:

John’s phone rings a shrill, obnoxious tone from the top of the bedside table and Mycroft’s voice calls out from the sitting room.

“Shit.” John says, hoping it’s loud enough to annoy _Coitus Interruptus Holmes_.

Sherlock now looks like he is going to eat John. The part of John that was very interested a few seconds ago is now betraying his aggravation at the paired interruptions. He opens his mouth to apologize but Sherlock has already hopped off the bed in a single movement and is flouncing into the sitting room to snarl and snark at his brother.

Completely naked.

But not, as it stands, completely uninterested.

“Sherlock!” John calls, thinking to spare his lover from embarrassment. After that thought bounces around in his sex-hormone infused brain he realizes that Sherlock’s name and the word ‘embarrassment’ do not even belong in the same sentence unless there is an ‘impossible’ in the middle of it someplace. He wipes his hand against the sheet and grabs his now vibrating and screeching mobile from the nightstand.

“Sherlock, please do cover yourself.” John hears Mycroft drawl. “This is absolutely nothing I wish to see.”

“Why, is it making you jealous?” Sherlock answers.

John shakes his head at the awfully _entertained_ sound of Sherlock’s reply then looks down at his phone. Well now. He suddenly remembers that there was something he wanted to talk to Sherlock about _before_ getting a call like this. No time to worry about that now, he thinks as he answers it.

“Watson.”

“John, it’s Gwen. Hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

John thinks that the Mycroftian visit and the timing of this phone call cannot be mere coincidence. “Um, no, not really. What’s happening there?”

Gwen quickly fills him in on the appearance of a man that the team is sure has just been dumped out of the Rift. “He says his name is Isaak.”

“That doesn’t sound too extraordinary.” John picks at the edge of the dark purple comforter half-hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Well, that part isn’t, really. The fact that he seems to have survived the whole ordeal is, though. And he’s all human, before you even ask.” Gwen counters John’s next argument as easily as Sherlock would do.

John smiles fondly. Gwen is by far the easiest of the Torchwood team to like. “Right. What’s the rest of it, then?”

“He’s sick, John. Owen has run every test he can come up with and even tried a few of the better-known _tests_ we have available, but the man seems lost in his mind. He’s fighting terrible headaches, nausea and when he blacks out he keeps talking about water.”

“Gwen, I’m not a shrink.” John says seriously.

“No, we know that. But you are a war veteran with hands-on PTSD experience, and this looks like uber PTSD. Please, could you just come?”

“I don’t know…” John rubs his hand over his face. Where to even begin? The last time he was on a job for them was before Sherlock came back.

“Please, John, you know I…we, wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think we needed you. We are all aware that your Phoenix has come home to roost.” John can hear the smile in Gwen’s voice. Cop or not, she is still a romantic at heart.

“Alright, give me time to get there, yeah? I’ve not yet mentioned this…”

“You’re jokin’ me.” Gwen actually chuckles.

“No, there’s not been much time.” The back of John’s neck prickles as the sitting room goes completely silent.

“Let me tell you one more thing, then.” Gwen pauses, gives John time to say something else. When nothing is forthcoming, she says, “When we found Isaak, he was soaking wet from head to toe and vomiting up water. We tested the water and it matches the brackish water found in certain parts of Florida.”

“Florida?” Without a doubt, John is certainly intrigued now.

“Yep. See you soon, okay?” Gwen’s orders always seem like questions to John.

“We will be there.” He says firmly and hangs up, then starts pulling out clothes and wondering how to explain to Sherlock that they now have a new case of the unbloggable kind that will not make it into the newspapers.  

John pulls on his jeans and stuffs his now quiet phone into the front pocket, his wallet into the back one. His head is turned as he scans the room for any other incidental he might need when he remembers that his black bag is stuffed in the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom. So concentrating he is that he is completely oblivious to the tall, naked body blocking his way and walks right into Sherlock who complains in a loud huff.

“Mycroft says he will have a car here in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock’s mouth is tight, his expression guarded.

 _Dammit._ John thinks. “This is not how I wanted to tell you…” He starts.

“Not now, John. You can explain all in short order after we are on the way.” Sherlock brushes past him and into the bedroom to dress.

When John steps into the sitting room, Mycroft is long gone. It takes him only a few short minutes to gather his things together and drop them by the door. He is zipping up his leather jacket when Sherlock reappears, dressed in a black suit and a sapphire blue shirt, certainly not looking like the almost-got-his-brains shagged out man from a little while ago.

If anything, John considers, Sherlock looks a bit unsure. “Sherlock, I…” He closes his mouth because he really doesn’t know what to say. Of course, that’s been the problem all along, really.

 Sherlock just stares at him as he collects his own pocket detritus and steps into his shoes. He pulls his long coat off the hook and steps into the circle of it as it settles on his shoulders with the grace of a dancing partner--or possibly a battle-worn shield.  

John knows Sherlock is more curious than angry when he rests his palm against the small of John’s back and guides him down the steps to the black Bentley GT V8 waiting at the curb of Baker Street. It looks and sounds exactly like some black panther waiting to pounce as it idles. John thinks that if Sherlock were to reincarnate as a car, this would be it.

Interestingly enough, there is no driver. Sherlock slides into the seat behind the wheel and pulls the belt across his shoulder. He searches for and ultimately finds a pair of expensive sunglasses behind the visor and slides them onto his face, then clicks the cigarette lighter into place.

John slides his seat forward in order to stow his bag behind it. He settles in and clicks his own seatbelt just as Sherlock pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He deftly pulls one from the packet, lights it and then rests it in the corner of his mouth as he puts the car in gear and pulls into traffic.

John frowns but says nothing. Sherlock looks over at him for a second then leans his head back against the rest and blows a perfect smoke ring to the ceiling. “A little reminder for Mycroft, so he doesn’t forget about me.”

“As if anyone could forget about _you._ ” John answers, staring out the window.

“Cardiff, correct?” Sherlock asks, changing lanes. “Apparently you tried.”

“Yes.” John says as his mind catches up with the rest of Sherlock’s sentence. “What do you mean by that?”

“Obviously this is some kind of _job_ , John. Something you were doing in your spare time while I was gone. Something you did not see fit to tell me about.” Sherlock smacks his lips around the filter lightly and takes another drag then lets smoke drift out of his mouth slowly.  

John says nothing because the alternative is to lose his temper completely. In order to calm down, he watches the landscape fly by. Very fast.

“Sherlock, if you get pulled over, it’s your problem.” John frowns as the car seems to leap forward when Sherlock puts the pedal to the floor.

“Don’t change the subject, John.” The engine growls along, weaving a backdrop of masculine sound around them.

“I don’t know _how_ to tell you, Sherlock.” John looks anywhere now except at his partner. Somehow Sherlock is shifting, smoking and playing with the rearview mirror _and_ still keeping one hand on the wheel at the same time. The multi-tasking is making John dizzy.

“Tell me John.”

“Fine, Sherlock, but understand that most of it you are not going to believe.” John finally looks over at Sherlock and is overtaken, as he always is, by the cool exterior hiding the roiling stream of lava that lies just beneath the surface of the consulting detective, even now. He seems at ease behind a desk covered with laptop computers as he does in this moment: cool and in control; making John wish he felt the same way.

“Sherlock, I never tried to forget you. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Without you, I had nothing. Nothing. I quit the surgery the day after your funeral because I couldn’t face the living. I was three months into a deep depression the day Mycroft dragged me out of the flat and to the weirdest crime scene I’ve ever been presented with.” John pauses for a breath. “ I’m staring down at this humanoid creature who is weeping from the pain of convulsions wracking it’s body and of course, I only have the foggiest idea what causes seizures like that in _humans_ for fuck’s sake…and you know what I was thinking?”

Sherlock says nothing. Loudly.

John continues. “Well, Sherlock, I’m looking at this thing and I’m trying bloody hard to empathize with its pain and work out some way to help it and on one hand I’m concerned because I haven’t shaved in about a week and on the other hand I’m actually waiting on you to step up next to me, take one look at this wretched creature and give me some idea what’s happening. But it didn’t happen that way. I solved the problem myself.”

“What do you mean: creature?” Sherlock asks.

“That’s just it, Sherlock. A creature.” Leave it to Sherlock to disassemble the emotional stuff like cracking a nut to get to the meat in the middle.

“Look, all of this will be explained to you by people who have way more experience than I do. Can you believe that I wanted to tell you several times? It just seemed like you appeared out of nowhere and right back into my life, and with all of this, “he gestures between them, “I’ve been in a tailspin. How in the world do I stop you in between solving cases that affect the general populous and say, ‘hey Sherlock, let me inform you that some of that stuff from sci-fi movies is real', and also, guess what? I’ve performed surgeries on several unique individuals in order to save their lives or retrieve certain objects to stop them from falling into the wrong hands.”

John licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He chances a quick look at his partner out of the corner of his eye. Even with their intimate relationship, there are times when John finds Sherlock’s expressions difficult to read; the sunglasses are not helping the matter. When Sherlock is quiet, he is either contemplating a counterargument or getting ready to toss a string of things gleaned via deducing in someone’s direction.

However, this time, the detective does neither of those things. He looks over his shoulder, changes lanes again and says simply, “Go on.” Long fingers stub the cigarette butt out in the ashtray in the console. Instead of going for another one, Sherlock rests his hand on the shifter, letting his fingers curl around the chrome handle.

“I won’t feel guilty about it.” For a second John forgets that he is not trying to convince _himself_ of that fact.

“Dammit Sherlock. I won’t. You were…well, you were _gone_. I won’t gush and say Mycroft probably saved my life that day he practically dragged me out by the scruff of my neck like a bad pup… but he did give me back a purpose.”

Sherlock half-whispers, “I understand.” The hand resting on the gear shift slides over to lie against John’s thigh.

John sighs and relaxes into the seat. This conversation is going better than he ever expected. He continues to talk for the next two hours with Sherlock piping in with questions now and again, but never really taking his eyes off the road. John is not fooled; he knows all of Sherlock’s tells that point to the word _interesting_ bouncing about in his brain like a rubber ball in a linoleum factory. This is good, though, because John finds it cathartic to finally get the truth out.

When they arrive, John points to a place outside the sports complex where Sherlock can leave the car in relative safety. Sherlock slides out while John retrieves his bag.

“This way.” John points to an ambiguous spot not far from where they stand.

Sherlock slides the sunglasses off his face and into his coat pocket in one smooth movement. He follows John to stand in front of what looks like nothing more than a rusty decorative waterfall sculpture. John steps up onto one of the rocks surrounding it and offers his hand to the detective.

Sherlock scowls and holds his peace as he takes his place beside John, curiosity winning out over the ridiculousness of it all. The rock beneath their feet begins to tremble.

*

Isaak is sitting at the long dining table carefully picking through a container of fried rice with a pair of chopsticks when the loud grinding of the invisible lift startles him. He almost drops the container, then notices everyone else’s calm expressions and returns to digging out the little squares of white onions and dropping them onto a plate in front of him. Finally getting a clear bite sans onions, he chews thoughtfully, glad that that the dizzy sick feeling seems to be held at bay for the moment. As raw as his stomach and throat feels, he is hungry after having a decent rest.

He studies his companions as he picks out another bite. Tosh and Gwen are conversing quietly between themselves in that knowing way women friends often do. The young man from yesterday, Ianto, seems over-dressed in his suit and tie, but friendly enough.

Another man, this one a little older than suit boy, sits in a dark humor at the opposite end of the table, chewing kung pow beef like it has personally wronged him. Isaak thinks he remembers that his name is Owen. Owen spoke only enough to Isaak to walk him through a few medical tests, but has basically left him alone since then. Isaak gets the impression that the young doctor is a bit preoccupied by something outside his job.

With the crackling kinetic energy of a cocked M-16 rifle, Captain Jack swoops into the dining room. Isaak keeps finding his attention pulled to the man, in part because there is something _timeless_ about him, so much so that if Isaak considers it too long he becomes disoriented. Of course, that reaction could simply be chalked up to whatever disease is affecting him.

Isaak sets the container and chop sticks on the table, remembering the conversation he and Jack had a few hours ago.

“What is wrong with me?” He asks Jack as they sit alone in Jack’s office.

“Unfortunately, we aren’t completely sure.” Jack fiddles with the wide leather bracelet on his wrist.

“You are lying.” Isaak states sternly, forcing Jack to meet his eyes.

For a moment they size each other up across the desk.

Jack breaks first. “Partially, yeah. You have gone on a long trip, Isaak. A long trip indeed. If you have been through what I believe you have been through, you are going to need a lot of things, the least of which will be a new identity. For the time being, until we can put our collective fingers on what exactly is wrong with you, you are going to stay here.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Captain?” Isaak leans forward so that his arms rest against the desk.

“I am trying to tell you that for now you have to be patient. You are sick, of that there is no doubt.”

“What is making me sick?” Isaak spits out, irrational anger creeping into his voice because it is all he has. The tan skin on his face colors up as he braces himself against the desk with his hands.

“I wasn’t lying about that—we really do not yet know.” Jack offers, turning his hands with the palms out, not exactly giving into Isaak’s unintentional threat, but not backing down either.

Jack holds his ground and waits. He has nothing _but_ time.

“I apologize.” Isaak sits back against the chair. He takes a fortifying breath. “There is too much space in an empty head. It is frustrating.”

“I get that.” Jack says. “I really do. Look, we are doing the best we can.”

“If this is the future of some sort, can’t you just find me a doctor?” Isaak asks, his tone of voice a more normal register.

Jack laughs boyishly, his clean white teeth flashing in the dim light of his office. “Well, the kind of Doctor I have in mind is currently unavailable but I can call in the second best. Come on.” Jack pushes away from his desk and strides towards the closed door.

With that, Isaak has no choice but to follow Jack out into the workspace that makes up the majority of the center of the Hub.  The rest of the team listens to Jack’s plan and the dark-haired woman named Gwen makes a telephone call to a certain Doctor Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

> “I’ve heard it said with great authority that those people who refuse to continue to learn, to grasp whatever knowledge they are presented with throughout their lifetimes…those people who never strive to move beyond what they are in any given moment…those people are said to be the greatest lovers of life, accepting it as it comes.
> 
> I respectfully disagree.
> 
> I believe it is those who seek knowledge and experience from the world around them who are the greatest lovers of life in the universe. Because the world is a constantly changing phenomenon, life-and therefore knowledge, should follow suit. The pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of living are not independent experiences: simply put, to possess one is to embrace the other.”
> 
> -an excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

 **I** saak returns to digging through his fried rice as the sound of the lift overhead continues to wind down. The groaning and grinding sounds get louder as the lift comes to a halt and then a pair of quiet voices over footsteps: one set moving in such a way that Isaak recognizes the man is a regular visitor here and the other set moving in the first man’s wake albeit with a slight insecurity that Isaak finds intriguing. Isaak does not question his own observations, only accepts them.

The women go quiet as the newcomers step into view and Gwen jumps up from her seat to wrap the shorter, broader of the two men in a hug. He is wearing a black leather jacket over jeans and a grey jumper that can be seen when the jacket’s sleeves pull back from holding Gwen. The second man, taller and leaner, dressed in black trousers and a long wool coat, steps forward as if to prevent the first from falling backwards as he is rocked on his heels from Gwen’s enthusiastic greeting. Jack stands beside them, his fingers hooked around his brown bracers and sporting a proud half-fond/half- amused expression on his face. Isaak wonders if Jack knows how _paternal_ he looks at the moment.

Not having moved from her place at the table, even Tosh is smiling shyly in welcome. Two spots of bright pink that match her silk shirt have appeared high on her cheeks. The only person who seems unhappy to see the newcomers is Owen, whose faraway expression has turned blatantly angry **.**

“Just what the hell is _he_ doing here, Jack?” Owen blurts out, tossing down the crumpled napkin in his hand. Spite makes him sound like he is talking around a mouthful of mush, or it could just be the mouthful of kung pow he has forgotten that he should be chewing. Owen’s eyes narrow and he tightens his mouth. A fierce red blush stands out across his cheeks, contrasting sharply with his light green patterned button-down.

Isaak finds the contrast between the dull, bored Owen and this angry fellow intriguing. The two men who have just entered the dining area seem to be no threat, though he is unsure how he knows this to be true. He mentally shrugs even as he tenses up and remains watchful, body unconsciously going into battle stance, just in case.

Jack glares at Owen and leans against the table, crossing his arms. “That really is no way to show your appreciation for your life.”Jack speaks as if he were talking to a child.

“Are you kidding me? It was his fault I was hurt in the first place!” Owen shouts, striding around the table, his eyes on the shorter of the newcomers.

“I apologized to you for that, over and over, Owen. I had never seen a Morander before! How was I to know the damned thing bled toxins?” The man’s voice is pitched low, memories of a big, hairy baby-poop yellow swamp creature come to the forefront of his mind. “Actually, I would be more than happy to simply forget about that particular alien species.” He states, almost as an afterthought.  

Just over his shoulder, the second man’s eyes widen and glitter mischievously in the Hub’s low light. No one who can see him can decide if he looks stunned or merely interested. Jack grins and Gwen just looks worried.

“Oh, I’m John Watson, Mycroft’s fucking Golden Boy!” Owen spits, shoving his face forward and down into John’s so that they are nose to nose. He flaps his hands at his sides like a duck wading into water flaps its wings, pulling his shirt out of his trousers where it hangs sloppily, unheeded.

Owen easily tops John by three or four inches but John, in a show of strength, just tips his head upward and watches. Isaak thinks that John does not appear to be the sort who is going to suffer this juvenile posturing for very long.

John goes eerily still as Owen continues his tirade. “I get to come and play with Torchwood because my lover has decided to take a dive off a building! Oh, woe is me…”

John’s fist tightens at his side, the first conscious sign of his irritation. “Owen, what is your problem?” He snarls. “If I hadn’t been there, you would have lost half your face.” Sherlock steps back from John just as Owen moves in even closer still.

“That’s not fucking true and you know it, Watson. How the hell do you get off walking into the middle of Torchwood business in the first place? Huh? Go on, John, I want to hear your excuses. Some of us had to work our asses off to get here…oh!” Owen holds his hands up to his face in mock surprise. “I know! You must have been shagging the older brother, too, right?” His mouth hangs open and he is practically panting. Isaak is astounded that Owen is not actually drooling; the man looks so deranged at the moment.

The dining room is so silent Jack can hear multiple ages throughout the galaxy pass them by. Even Sherlock moves too slowly to stop John’s fist; his attention divided between mentally cataloging all the strange equipment he can see and knowing that John can generally stick up for himself in these types of arguments. After all, Sherlock has seen him jump on a psychopath’s back without even flinching.

Isaak moves.

Suddenly, he is standing there with his palm curved around John’s hand and John is taking a step back from the strength of the aborted motion, almost as if they are being recorded on a high-speed camera.

If Owen is dumbfounded, John is completely gobsmacked. His eyes turn up to Isaak, where he takes in the amazed look on the other man’s face—apparently as surprised by his own instinctive actions as everyone else. Isaak lets go and holds his hands up in the air. Gwen, ever the mediator, wraps an arm around his waist and gently maneuvers him towards Jack’s office, her boot heels making a soft thud as they cross the plush carpet.

John turns and follows them, Sherlock on his heels. It is not his place to deal with Owen’s newsstand-filling issues. Tosh mutters something about “monitors” as she scoots through the tiny space left between Jack and Owen.

Jack’s hands are now resting on his hips as he faces Owen. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

“Jack, come on, mate…” Owen tries.

“Give it up, Owen. I know bullshit when I hear it. You overstepped and you know it.” Jack shoves his index finger against Owen’s chest. Owen slaps it away. Jack’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Jack, what the hell? What happened to loyalty?” Owen complains.

“Loyalty? Have you lost your mind? What do any of the insults that just flew out of your big, ungrateful mouth have to do with loyalty?” There is no need for Jack to raise his voice for his point to get across.

It is Owen’s turn to cross his arms. He moves closer into Jack’s personal space. “Oh come on Jack! He’s an outsider, a stranger and you just let him waltz in here! ‘Hey John, have a look around at all this cool stuff that could be used to demolish the human race! Please let us offer you our _years_ of hard work’...”

“That’s enough.” Jack says in a flat voice.

But Owen is not done, not by far. “You know what, Jack, he’s probably a fucking government implant here to undermine everything we do. You know that Holmes bastard has had it in for you…”

This time Owen really does get decked. He hits the floor with a thud and rolls onto his side with a grunt.

“I told you that was enough.” Jack shakes his hand and rubs his knuckles, satisfied that he pulled his punch enough not to damage Owen permanently. “Go home, Owen. Take a break and sleep it off. Leave your ID and your weapon.”

“Jack…” Owen tries to sound remorseful but the effect is lost from his crouched position on the floor. Instead he just sounds whiny.

Ianto materializes out of nowhere with a clear plastic bag of ice. He hands the bag to Jack and reaches out to haul Owen to his feet with a sure grip. Owen rubs his cheek and glares at Jack like a put-out toddler who was told he could have no more biscuits. A thin line of blood runs down his lip. He wipes it away with his thumb, blinking at Jack as if he has never really seen him before this moment.

“It is time for you to leave.” Ianto echoes Jack’s words. He drag-pushes Owen towards the exit, divesting him of anything related to Torchwood and thankfully keeping him silent. Jack takes a deep, steadying breath as he eyes the sway of Ianto’s hips as the younger man moves away from him; the play of the muscles across his back as he holds Owen in place. Jack thinks that this is what the perfect afternoon snack looks like.

This latest outburst from Owen has been long overdue; Jack is neither completely surprised nor overly upset about it. He shakes his head and says “loyalty” out loud. As if. Ideas of how long to keep Owen ‘grounded’ tumble through his mind; Owen needs to get his own shit straightened out and stop worrying about that woman. Any woman. Or man, for that matter. Simply put, Jack thinks Owen needs to stop worrying about getting his rocks off and concentrate more on his job. He is an integral part of the team and Jack really does not want to lose him; he only hopes the point gets across.

Jack waits on Ianto to return empty-handed so they can rejoin the rest of the team in Jack’s office. He drops the bag of ice into the trash bin as they pass it, his knuckles no longer bruised.

*

John makes himself comfortable on the front edge of Jack’s desk, Sherlock appropriates the leather swivel chair behind it, and Gwen sits down on the floor so that Isaak can take the chair in front of John.

“Isaak, let me formally introduce myself. I am Doctor John Watson and this is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.” He smiles when Isaak nods, their names obviously meaning nothing to him.

“What was all of that?” Isaak asks, gesturing towards the dining room.

John sighs. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into his back, eagerly awaiting the answer. “Owen. He’s still pissed at me because I patched him up better than he could have done himself with all his fancy equipment within arm’s reach.”

Gwen suppresses a smile behind her hand and Sherlock snorts. John does not need the detective to actually say anything, in this instance; he knows what his partner is thinking. Isaak merely nods, accepting the information.

“Now, let’s talk about you.” John shifts into doctor mode as Isaak raises his head. He sticks out his hand and Isaak shakes it calmly. “Isaak, what do you know?” John asks.

Isaak finds himself unwinding a little. “The first thing I remember is waking up on a hard bench and a few minutes later being told I’m in Cardiff.”

John nods. “Gwen said you were experiencing dizziness and nausea?”

“Yes, that seems to be subsiding, though. A few hours rest and some food have helped.” Isaak tells the doctor. Movement in the doorway announces the quietly unassuming arrival of Tosh. She quickly blends into the wallpaper next to where Gwen is still sitting on the floor.

“That’s good.” John turns at the sound of rattling. Sherlock has his long fingers wrapped around something inside the top drawer of Jack’s desk. John reaches over and smacks Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock, leave that alone or I’ll send you home.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock falls dramatically against the back of the chair. John knows he is dying to poke around in here, but John cannot split his loyalties that way, regardless of what Owen Harper thinks. John gives Sherlock a few more seconds’ attention, thinking that the detective has been awfully compliant, but right now he has to concentrate on Isaak. He narrows his eyes at Sherlock in warning before turning back to Isaak, choosing to ignore the patented Holmes smirk.

“Just one more thing I need to check out, Isaak. They said your shirt was covered with blood on one side, but there is no wound underneath?”

Isaak does not answer; he stands and tugs the white cotton shirt over his head. Gwen points to a shiny patch of new skin on Isaak’s torso and John leans forward to take a closer look. White scar tissue has formed just below the left costal arch but it looks like it healed ages ago. John looks up.

“If this was caused by a gunshot then you should not be standing here. The bullet would have gone straight to your stomach, causing irreparable damage.” John touches each spot gently with his fingers, clearly illustrating for everyone in the room. “I know Owen has run a few tests on you, but I’d like to check a few things myself, if you allow.”

“Sure, why not.” Isaak shrugs his shoulders and John extends his left hand back to where Sherlock swivels in the leather chair, boredom written all over his face.

“Hand me my stethoscope and penlight, please.”

Sherlock mutters something under his breath about not being a nurse but obediently reaches for John’s bag and produces the requested implements. John gets up from where he’s been sitting and looks Isaak up and down, taking in the tall man’s burly frame. He slowly walks around him to inspect body posture and muscle tonicity and to check for further scars or other peculiarities but does not see anything.

“Isaak, would you take off your trousers, please.”

Isaak shoots him a sinister look. “I’m not bending over. Not in front of Gwen and Tosh, and not at all.”

John meets Isaak’s scowl with professional neutrality but there’s a noise coming from Jack that sounds suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

“I don’t want you to bend over. I just want to see if there are further abnormalities on your skin, and whether your mobility has been affected in any way. Gwen, Tosh-“ he looks at them, asking for their understanding with his eyes. Both women nod and turn to leave, closing the door behind them.

Isaak steps out of his tracksuit bottoms and lets John continue. Deft fingers palpate vertebrae and sharp eyes inspect Isaak from head to toe. When John is done, he nods towards Isaak who quickly puts his trousers back on. John motions for him to sit back down and plugs the stethoscope earpieces in, then briefly presses the diaphragm into the palm of his hand so it’s not too cold against skin. He places it against Isaak’s chest and starts auscultating the heart and lungs.

 “It all sounds just like it should,” he smiles and switches the penlight on. Isaak’s light reflexes are as they should be, too. John turns to face Jack.

“I need to see the results of whatever tests Owen has run on him, but from what I’ve gathered so far, Isaak’s in top physical shape.” He sits back down on Jack’s desk and places the penlight and stethoscope behind him. Sherlock grabs the penlight and starts flipping it through his fingers just as a knock on the door announces Gwen who pokes her head in.

“Jack, Tosh has picked up a signal coming from inside Llandaff Cathedral.”

“Oh?” Jack tears his eyes away from Isaak’s massive shoulders, intrigued. “Llandaff, huh? Nothing’s been going on around there for a while.”He grabs his blue coat off the hook on the wall, then stops in the doorway and turns back towards John. “You coming along, John?”

John is surprised; he looks to Sherlock, the question written plain as day across his face. Sherlock cannot refuse him, especially after everything; he waves in the general direction of the door and says “I’ll be fine.”

Isaak decides he is currently well enough, all things considered. John gives Sherlock a peck on the lips then hops down off the desk. Isaak’s eyes grow wide with surprise. If this _is_ the future, lots of things have changed.

As John approaches Jack, Jack holds his hand out as if to clap John on the shoulder but he catches the look in Sherlock’s eyes and thinks better of it. _Mine_ could not be any clearer than if Sherlock would have said it out loud. Jack gives the detective a nod before sliding his arms into his coat and following John out of the room.

John hopes that Sherlock and Isaak will not kill each other, but on the other hand, maybe the detective will be able to gather enough data about the stranger to help him regain some sense of self. After all, there is no doubt Sherlock has done something similar at least once before: John has more than enough personal experience to prove it.

*

Isaak stares curiously around Jack’s office. Sherlock is happy to finally have this chance to talk to the man. Isaak beats him to it, though. “Sherlock, Jack told me about this friend of his that has a rather extraordinary ability to read people. Can I assume that you are that friend?”

“Yes.” Sherlock rumbles, knotting his fingers together on the top of the desk. Isaak does not know that the detective is valiantly fighting the urge to hack into Jack’s computer. He looks up from his hands and holds Isaak’s gaze.

“Well?” Isaak asks.

“I promised John I would not try to find out _everything_ about you.” Sherlock answers. He shrugs, causing the curls on his forehead to bounce.

Isaak just stares at him. “Can you tell me anything?” He grits his teeth against the need in his voice.

“Actually, I have something better in mind. Let’s go for a walk.” Sherlock moves away from the desk and keeps going without stopping to see if the other man is following him. They wind down another staircase, Sherlock uncannily finding his way in unfamiliar territory deeper into the underground bunker. The steps finally end in a door that Sherlock pushes open. He may or may not have asked John where he is allowed to go, mainly because John may or may not have been in the middle of getting yelled at by Owen the Annoying in the dining area. Of course, permission never exactly stops Sherlock Holmes from seeing what he needs to see. Ever.

They step into a rectangular room that has been divided into several cells with clear glass fronts. The brown walls seem warmer for the yellow lights mounted in the ceiling. After a cursory walk around, Sherlock decides that most of the cells are empty.

“Look at this.” He states, pointing into a darkened cell.

A face with skin the texture and color of a walnut husk and the brown eyes of a primate gazes through the glass at them. All at once a collection of memories runs through Isaak’s mind, relentlessly pulled forward on a gossamer thread. Those otherworldly eyes stir something primeval inside him and just before the world turns upside down he thinks that he is glad he cannot put on a name on this primitive part of himself. Pain sears through his head as the image of a smiling man appears in front of his eyes. He clutches at his temples as the pictures rotate and change…flooding his cerebellum…people falling backwards with small holes in their foreheads, an elegant living room and tasteful flower arrangements, a screwdriver sticking out of an eye socket, a beautiful woman on his arm, he sees himself wearing an orange overall…he stumbles, then blacks out.

 

Later, when he comes to, he discovers he has been brought back to the cot he slept in earlier. Isaak opens his eyes to see Sherlock sitting across the tiny room, really a cleaned out supply closet, and watching him intently.

“Isaak.” Sherlock pitches his voice low, allowing Isaak the time to return to the present. After the older man had fallen to the floor, Sherlock brought him back here. “John sent me a message a while ago, they will return soon.”

“Thank you.” Isaak says hoarsely. He wants to ask just how the skinny man got his much bulkier frame back up the stairs; instead he shies away from this apparent admission of weakness.

“I do not know what to do for you just yet.” Sherlock tells him, pointedly ignoring the issue of ‘how.’

“Thank you for not leaving me down there on the cold floor.” Isaak pulls the pillow up behind his back so he can sit up. He takes stock of the light blue hospital blanket, the white linens and the clothing on his back. Really all he has in this strange world that he has found himself lost in.

Looking over it all, a sharp sense of loss threatens to overpower him. He lets his eyes wander around the tiny room, finally resting them on the detective. Isaak has not really looked closely at the man and now he takes in the full measure of him. For all the natural warmth that John radiates, Sherlock is much cooler, more collected, more careful with himself. Another strange sense of familiarity shakes Isaak to his core.

Sherlock observes Isaak’s physical reaction to what he is sure is a memory. He does not move, instead watches to make sure the man is not going to black out again so soon. Isaak’s hands clutch at the blanket covering his legs and his arms tremble.

“You remembered something.” Sherlock’s smooth baritone cuts through the haze.

Isaak shakes his head. “I remember…” he squints his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “a slice of life.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, look at that. Fine feathers make fine birds indeed.”

 

> “Fear is a deep emotion that can be pulled apart the way a dead house fly can be dissected. Once the fly is in pieces, however, it is still as impossible to understand what gives the strange body the ability to fly as it was when it was whole. Fear works the same way: you can understand everything about what you are afraid of and rationally explain it to yourself, but you cannot ever stop the fear from forming in your heart.”
> 
> -excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones
> 
>  

John rests comfortably on the leather seat beside Ianto and Tosh, happily soaking in the easy camaraderie that flows between the teammates. Enough of the early afternoon light filters through the smoky windows of the big SUV to allow John to skim over the packet of papers in his hands. It is a short summary of Llandaff Cathedral; apparently it has been the center of alien activity several times prior to today. According to Ianto, Jack is confident that not much is happening there now and they are just heading out on a scouting mission. John does not mind much either way, as it gives him the chance to keep up with the workings of Torchwood between long absences. The excursion also serves to allow Sherlock the time he needs to come up with some helpful information concerning Isaak. John knows Jack is not stupid, the Captain would have jumped at any chance to get the two of them alone once he realized John would have the detective in tow. John turns his attention out the window to watch the slowly-greening landscape go by.

In- tow Sherlock certainly has been: they have barely spent twenty-four hours outside of each others’ immediate orbit since Sherlock returned. It is no complaint that they have spent so much time together, and as much as John loves being Sherlock’s left-hand man, he has to admit to himself that he has missed working with a team. The two of them have never really had this type of working relationship outside of themselves, even with the Yard.

While Sherlock was off pretending to be a corpse, this was John’s salvation: following a madman into even madder situations, getting covered in muck and filth, and occasionally bickering over a dead body.

Which is to say that John’s life with Sherlock gone was not much different than it was with Sherlock home, save for missing the main ingredient: the mad scientist himself. Now that their relationship has escalated, the only fear that John faces daily is that something will happen to the nutter and John will find himself alone again—this time without a miracle. He shakes it off as a pair of sparkling brown eyes appears in his short-range vision.

Gwen is leaning between the front seats smiling at him. Tosh is patting his leg. He turns his face up and both ladies are giving him the same we know what you are thinking about expression.

“John! Yo, John!” Gwen snaps her fingers playfully. John smiles, hoping he really does not look as love struck as everyone seems to think he does. Jack guides the SUV into two parking spaces and they all climb out. Four doors slam in succession and they move together towards the massive building.

Gwen falls back beside John and gives his arm a squeeze. “I am so happy for you.” She tells him, her expression honest and open.

He offers her a smile as they push through a huge set of ancient doors; the dark wood has been stained with time and stands in sharp contrast to the newer, shiny hinges. Gwen’s black hair swings with the motion of pushing on one of them; the door creaks as it opens to permit their entry. Jack goes in first, followed by Gwen, then Ianto and John. Tosh remains behind with the SUV so she can keep communications lines open and monitor the building for spikes in Rift activity.

Jack draws his gun as they move deeper into the vestibule. There are no candles burning and no lights on. John feels the shift in mood at the same time Gwen does; the two of them draw their own weapons simultaneously.

“Looks like the electric has been cut.” Ianto offers helpfully.

Jack rolls his eyes and cocks his head at the younger man, failing to hide his grin. “So…?” He shoves his gun back into its holster, deciding that any immediate threat is long gone.

“So I should go and see where the power boxes are.” Ianto says, looking around the cavernous room. He quickly pinpoints the exit doors and jogs past the rear line of pews towards one. Jack watches him go and when he turns back to John and Gwen, John is grinning and Gwen is rolling her eyes.

“Jack.” She huffs.

“What?” Jack shrugs it off as if he is unaware of his expression. 

“What’s next?” John asks as he shoves his gun back into the waistband of his jeans.

Jack nods. “Tosh, got anything for me?” He asks then listens as she informs him that the residual energy seems to be centered in a hidden room underneath the sanctuary. “Right then. Ianto, where are you?”

John cannot hear Ianto’s answer, though Jack seems satisfied. “Tosh says it’s under here. It looks like there’s a trap door and I’m assuming a ladder that leads down into it. Will you meet us there?” Again, John cannot hear the answer but he assumes it is to the affirmative. He follows Jack through the rows of pews, taking in the well-rounded structure of the building around them. As far as architecture goes, John is impressed. The arches and doorways were all created to give a feeling of a vast space. The acoustics are excellent; John can hear their quiet footsteps as they march towards the altar.

Gwen is already peeling back a deep purple carpet behind the purple and gold cloth covered altar.

“Found it!” She announces happily as she eases the trap door to its resting place. Jack kneels down beside the now gaping hole in the floor. He pulls a small mag lite out of the pocket of his coat and shines it down into the darkness. He maneuvers himself so that his feet touch the first rung, the torch in between his teeth. Just as his head and shoulders disappear beneath the lip of the opening, a light snaps on from below.

“Found the switch!” Ianto’s voice carries out across the sanctuary to where Gwen and Jack are waiting their turn. In a few seconds Jack calls up for them to come down. Gwen shimmies over and starts her descent, followed by John. It does not take any time at all before they are all standing in yet another cavernous room, this one decidedly cooler than the one upstairs.

Ianto joins them and he is carrying a large torch. “Found this up there in the closet,” he says, hefting the massive instrument.

“There’s another entry, then?” Gwen asks.

Ianto nods. “Yep, it is in the closet where the power boxes are.” He points behind himself.

“Tosh, can you get a read for me? Find out if there are more than two hidden entrances to the underground room.” Jack states. He turns to Ianto, “Did you see anything useful?”

“Yes.” Ianto answers. “Follow me.” They fall into step behind him, all of them curiously looking around at the pale grey rock walls. The corridor narrows before it stops. On the left side is a door that presumably leads back up to the closet Ianto came through. On the right side is an archway that is lined with wood. A design is partially carved into the wood, almost as if the carver gave up before he completed it.

The room itself is unremarkable—an empty space surrounded by walls that have been painted a pale yellow. A long wooden table and several chairs are placed parallel to the entryway. To the untrained eye, it would seem that the room has not been used in a long time. To the trained eye, however…

“Look at this.” Jack points to several scuff marks on the smooth stone floor. There is a small pile of what could be bread crumbs beside the chair leg. He pokes a finger into the pile and wipes the crumbs around some, finally announcing, “It really is bread.”

Jack holds his hand up so they can all see. Gwen frowns.

“Strange.” Ianto says for all of them.

As they search a little more, they also find an empty soda can, a strange white container with more of the bread crumbs in it and a pack of unusual playing cards. Instead of the usual symbols, the cards are covered with odd rune-like markings. Jack pushes them back into the pack, shrugs and says, “Pevanian playing cards. What are they doing here?”

Gwen has moved her search out into the corridor. “Jack, guys, come look at this.”

They move to find her kneeling down, an ink pen in her hand. She is pointing it at a small, gold piece of jewelry lying on its side against the stone floor. Gwen pokes at it and turns it over, revealing a flat top with a tiny white jewel in it and a stylized ‘S’ carved into it. Jack grabs it and holds it up to the light.

“There’s something familiar about that stone, Jack.” John says quietly. Jack nods in agreement.

“I don’t think there’s anything else here to find.” Jack gestures around the room. “Let’s get back to the Hub. Tosh, do you copy?”

Ianto leads them back up to the church the way he came in.

 

*

Isaak tugs at the hem of the t-shirt he’s wearing. Apart from the fact that the borrowed clothes don’t really fit, they feel _wrong_ on him, too. He looks at Ianto as the younger man appears in the doorway.

Ianto has been sent to Isaak’s room to check up on him after Sherlock filled in the team about the episode that happened down in the cells while they were gone. Jack was a bit irritated about Sherlock’s trespassing, but after listening to the detective’s conclusions, Jack decided that perhaps ret-conning the man would prove detrimental to Isaak’s case. Ianto focuses his attention back to Isaak who is looking at him with an unhappy expression in his eyes.

“Am I to consider myself captive here, or am I free to leave this place to get some clothes? I appreciate you providing for me while I was unwell but I’m getting tired of wearing… these.” He gestures at the tracksuit bottoms.

Ianto gives a sympathetic smile. He is dressed in a nice dark blue pinstripe with a mauve shirt and burgundy tie, a somewhat daring color combination, yet it looks dapper on him. He looks Isaak up and down, sees the tracksuit bottoms that are too short for the man’s long legs and the t-shirt that, although baggy on its previous owner, Gwen’s boyfriend Rhys Williams, not a small man by any standard, threatens to burst at the seams, and decides on a whim to talk to Jack.

“Let me see what I can do,” he offers and goes off in search of Jack. Surely it will not hurt to hold off their meeting for a little while.

Isaak’s shoulders slump slightly as he tilts his head back and rubs his hand across his face. The cot beneath him moves as he shifts. If only he could remember. Bits and pieces have been flashing through his brain since he looked into that creature’s—Sherlock called it a ‘Weevil’—strange eyes. The images do not make sense and they flash through his brain like random pieces of jigsaw puzzles that refuse to fit together no matter which way one turns them. People dying—at his hand? People smiling at him—in his arms? Eyes wide and fixed on him with open fear? With open hatred? Two faces keep coming back, male faces, both of them: a young man, handsome and athletic, with an easy smile and warm brown eyes; a second man, older, wiry, reddish-brown hair, cool green eyes. Who are they? Where are they? What are they to him? What were they to him? He groans, but before he starts spiraling down the path that does not provide him with answers, Ianto returns. He holds an obsidian credit card between index and middle finger and gives him one of his rare smiles.

“Ready when you are. John has declared you fit for the outside world and Jack says to make yourself presentable. Let’s get you dressed.”

Isaak heaves a sigh and gets off the cot. As he follows Ianto to the garage, he notices Sherlock giving him one of his intense stares and wonders what unconscious data he has just provided him with from where he stands with his back against the wall next to Jack’s office, rudely smoking a cigarette.

The sound of John’s voice follows them as they climb into a posh black sports car. Ianto drives into Cardiff and parks the car near a huge building shaped like a cube with impressive glass facades and sign posted ‘Cardiff Library’. Isaak tries to look around but Ianto won’t allow for sightseeing. Instead, he heads straight for a men’s clothing store.  

“They have all sizes, even big menswear,” Ianto explains. “I’ve bought two of my suits here, and some trousers and shirts, too. A good place to start if we want to get you out of Rhys’ clothes.”

They enter the shop and Isaak stands in the middle of the generous salesroom, lost in thought for a brief moment. Then he squares his shoulders as if he has reached a decision. He seems to knows exactly what he wants and it doesn’t take him long to find it. He steers away from the casual outfits where he has picked a pair of Chinos and two Polo shirts and heads towards the suits. With sure eyes he picks a grey chalk-striped suit, a three piece navy and a three piece charcoal suit. He then selects a few shirts and ties and goes in search of shoes, detesting the feel of someone else’s trainers on his feet.

 Ianto watches in fascination as the tall man dressed in borrowed leisure wear starts ordering sales clerks around as if he was used to being obeyed. When the shop manager arrives with a measuring tape and a notebook, Ianto braces himself because it looks like it’s going to be awhile.

It is not long before he overhears the older man talk cloth quality and discuss lapels, vents, waistcoats, lining and trouser width that he knows he is in deep trouble. The credit card Jack has given him with complete trust is government-issued and does not have a limit, but that is no excuse to max it out; Isaak looks like he is about to spend a fortune here. The suits he has picked from the racks are too narrow in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves,  but the shop manager is quick to point out that he has two suits that were custom made for a professional athlete who ended up not picking them up, and said gentleman’s measurements were similar to Isaak’s. Isaak agrees to try the suits and when the jackets prove to be a comfortable fit and the trousers need only minor tailoring, a deal is quickly made.

Isaak’s measurements are taken in the fitting room and more suits are ordered. When he re-emerges, he is wearing smart blue trousers and a matching blazer with a light blue shirt that is open at the neck.

Ianto pulls him to the side. “I don’t think that kind of shopping frenzy is what Jack had in mind,” he hisses, a hint of desperation in his voice. He is met by a calm stormy-sea gaze.

“Your budget will not be burdened. I will draw on my funds and reimburse you, make no mistake about that.”

Ianto looks at Isaak, surprised about the sudden change of tone and overall posture while the shop manager weasels about, eager to please the promising new customer. Ianto is too polite and far too British to get into an argument about money in the middle of a men’s outfitter.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mister…” he pauses.

“Sirko. The name is Isaak Sirko. Yes, there is indeed one more thing.”

The manager looks at him expectantly.

“Where can I get a decent haircut and a professional shave?”

An address is quickly provided and as Isaak turns to leave, he waves towards Ianto. “Would you arrange for the clothes to be delivered? Mr. Jones will provide you with the details. Ianto, I’ll be next door to get a newspaper. Meet me at the car, if you please.”

With that, he strolls outside like he owns the place, leaving a stunned Ianto behind who can do little else but provide a delivery address and pay for Isaak’s purchases. Ianto studies him while the manager rings up the order. Isaak stands alone in the darkness underneath a street light, his head up and shoulders squared; most certainly not the same man who was soaking wet, shaking and vomiting on the pavement a day ago.

 

*

 

When they return to the Hub a considerable while later, the hustle and bustle stops the instant Isaak steps inside the work area. Gwen freezes in mid-movement and stares with wide eyes. Sherlock, who is sitting next to Tosh by the computer screens, takes in the changed appearance with wry amusement and a crooked half-smile while Tosh seems to shrink into herself a little. Jack and John look up from the files they’ve been perusing and while John looks only mildly surprised, Jack feels something akin to a heat wave surge through his system.

“Well, look at that. Fine feathers make fine birds indeed,” he says, fighting his impulse of greeting this new version of their stranded visitor with a cheeky remark along the lines of ‘ _what’s a gorgeous creature like you doing in a place like this,_ but can’t help looking Isaak up and down appreciatively. Even in his borrowed and ill-fitting clothes there was no mistaking his imposing stature but the man now standing in the crammed workspace seems to tower over them, a looming presence. He stands straight, massive shoulders emphasized by the cut of the jacket, trousers not slim but snug enough to emphasize powerful thighs, and from his freshly cut hair down to the new Blucher shoes, he radiates physical aggressiveness in a way that certainly was not evident before. Jack thinks they should speed up their investigation of him. In some small way, Jack has no desire to let loose a wild tiger around his team, even though they have all been well-aware of the potential dangers of this situation from the get-go.  

Of course, that’s a moot point because Sherlock Holmes has just opened his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My name is Isaak Sirko.”

> “A man’s physical needs may be met, but his heart can still be empty. We often spend time with someone on the pretense of not hurting them when we are really harming ourselves.” -excerpt from Captain Jack’s logbook
> 
> “Long ago, I spent an inordinate amount of time selfishly clinging to love. Now, I do not search for it.” -from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

_Jack has no desire to let loose a wild tiger around his team, even though they have all been well-aware of the potential dangers of this situation from the get-go._

_Of course, that’s a moot point because Sherlock Holmes has just opened his mouth._

*

John Watson inwardly braces himself. Standing in the crammed workspace with several very well-trained alien hunters, plus one very much looming stranger, is probably not the best platform for anything Sherlock is going to deliver. John steps around the side of the map table closest to where Sherlock has come out from behind Tosh’s bank of monitors and keyboards, virtually blocking the petite woman’s line of sight.

Jack remains behind the map table, comfortable at parade rest, his blue eyes fixed on Sirko. Gwen sits on the table between Jack and John. Tosh remains where she is, somewhat protected by Sherlock’s body and the equipment surrounding her. Of the people gathered here, only she and John are aware of just how fast things could go pear-shaped; thanks to some extensive research and spending the evening working beside the man who has been deceptively quiet up until now, soaking up the massive amounts of data surrounding him like a sponge.

Sherlock, of course, is now the center of attention, practically standing in the spotlight. He pretends to ignore it all, instead intent on Sirko.

“Go on.” Isaak says, not even turning his head to survey the rest of the room. His full attention is on the detective. Their eyes lock and hold, effectively excluding everyone else. He tries to remind himself that he _asked_ for this and whatever they discover is no one’s fault but his own.

“You were born in one of the former Soviet states, but given your pronounced English accent, you probably spent a considerable amount of time in England; maybe a boarding school? Something happened and you were sent away…someone was hurt.” Sirko says nothing. “The person was a leader of some type. No.” Sherlock’s eyes are now closed and he is holding one hand in the air, he swipes it as if he is cleaning off a screen. “No. Not a leader, a teacher. What did she do, Isaak? Did she choose to fail your efforts?” Sherlock is his usually blunt self, but John can hear a slight softening of the verbal blows.

Sirko watches him, still unmoving, sizing up the truth in his words

“You were never particularly close to your parents. Nothing ever mattered to you other than what you could gain from those around you. It seems you have stopped at nothing to attain those goals, as a child or as an adult.”

Tension grows throughout the room, yet no one moves.  

“You speak Russian, Spanish, and English, obviously.” Sherlock states as his eyes open. Jade irises glitter in the cast-off light from Tosh’s monitors. “You have the air of a natural leader who is accustomed to having his every order followed, yet you sport an overall easy-going manner that tends to inspire unequivocal loyalty in any team you might lead; which in return gives you the power to lead them even into darkness. They will follow, not only because they fear you, but because they genuinely respect and trust you.”

Although Sherlock’s words have an overall positive ring to them, the unspoken accusation _murderer_ hangs in the air for everyone to see. Sirko narrows his eyes at Sherlock and wonders why the detective did not speak it aloud. He knows he has killed and he also knows he has never been a soldier in the strictest sense…he just feels it in his bones. Sherlock is offering him some sort of repast here and it is up to him to take it or to leave it.

John, noticing the way the atmosphere is crackling, lays a palm on Sherlock’s arm, bringing his hand down out of the air. That last bit was oddly cryptic, even for Sherlock. “That’s enough for now, Sherlock.” For once, the detective listens and forces a halt to the information that he alone can see. John tilts his chin in Jack’s direction. Jack raises his eyes to Ianto. Ianto nods in return and gestures towards Gwen and Tosh. The women follow Ianto from the work area, leaving behind them a thunderous silence.

Sirko nods, keeping his attention on Sherlock while letting this information soak in. “My name is Isaak Sirko.”

His name slipped from his lips so easily in the clothing shop, but now it seems to be an oddly-warped fit, like bespoke leather shoes that have been soaked with mud and left to dry: they still go over your feet, but they no longer feel _right_. He tries it out one more time, “Sirko.”

Sirko closes his eyes against the images that rush into his memory: a tidal wave of the dead and the dying…a younger man with a severe expression holding a telephone and looking at him through a glass partition…a woman, crying, her face bleeding…plastic bags filled with a white substance…the memories begin to come faster now, some clearer than others...

He sways on his feet and reaches for the wall behind him to steady himself. John is by his side in a heartbeat, taking his pulse and watching him for signs of distress. Sirko’s face is pale. He covers his eyes with one hand.

“Isaak, please talk to us.” John urges in his best doctor’s voice.

Sirko takes a deep breath. “I would like to be alone.”

 “Alright.” John steps back.

“See you in the morning.” Jack tells him, remaining impassive where he stands with his arms crossed over his chest.

John and Sherlock leave swiftly. The sound of the door rolling closed breaks the heavy silence. Jack watches Sirko like he might be observing a previously unknown alien race,  considering, wondering just how _dangerous_ this stranger sitting in the command center of the institution Jack has worked so hard to build may be.

Sirko spreads his legs and runs his hands through his greying hair. His eyes rove about the room, seeing nothing but his own memories.

Jack is prepared to wait all night if necessary.

“Whatever you think you know, Captain Harkness, I am no longer that man.” Isaak’s gaze falls on Jack.

Jack takes in the sight of the man before him. A man who has lost everything and maybe just needs a second chance; if the story has a familiar ring to it, Jack will not let Isaak see just how much—not yet.

“Do you…” Jack asks.

“No. Please. I would like to be alone.” Every muscle in Isaak’s body is tense, his jaw clenched, fingers curled in a tight grasp on his thighs.

Jack understands. “Sure. You know where I am if you need anything. Everyone else has left for the night.” He gestures around. “It’s all yours, just stay out of the restricted areas.”

“Yes,” the tight answer is the only one Jack is going to get at this point.

A few minutes of quiet contemplation force Sirko to head to his cot, ignoring Jack’s presence or lack thereof. He removes the new blazer and reclines, resting his hands under his head, knowing that sleep will probably be a stranger this night.

*

John says nothing about the left-out information concerning Isaak Sirko until he is unbuttoning Sherlock’s coat in their hotel room. He is thinking over how to approach the out-of-character deviation when he slides the heavy garment from his lover’s shoulders and leans up for a kiss. Sherlock kisses back but John can tell that the detective’s mind is far away.

John crosses the room and pulls the blinds against the satiny night. The room is warm so he pulls off his shirt after removing his leather jacket. He picks up the kettle in the tiny kitchen area and begins boiling water for tea, watching Sherlock stride across the room to fall gracefully onto the bed, long legs stretched out. John chooses one of the two armchairs in the room and spins it to face the bed instead of the television. Between them, they embrace the homey quiet of Sherlock contemplating and John patiently waiting.

The tea is ready in minutes. Sherlock does not move until John has fixed them both a cup and settled on the bed next to him. He sits up and accepts the steaming beverage. “Thank you.” He says before sipping.

As has happened many times before, John finds himself so immersed in the study of Sherlock’s every move that he forgets what he wanted to ask. Right now he is eyeing a particularly lovely patch of ebony and auburn stubble that stands out against the sharp angle of Sherlock’s jaw. In the light from the lamp beside them, the auburn glints copper as the detective sips his tea.

Sherlock turns his head and John smiles at what he sees in the other man’s face. “Ask me, John.” He rumbles, holding the dainty china vessel to his plush lips.

An involuntary shudder races down John’s spine when those lips close over the rim of the cup. He has to shut his eyes to regain his footing. _Christ, he is gorgeous._ John rests against the headboard and sets his cup on the nightstand next to the bed. He puts an arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock moves up a little farther, sloshing a bit of his tea onto his hand that he promptly licks up in a slow, single swipe.

John takes Sherlock’s cup from him and sets it down next to his own then pulls the detective downward with his hands buried in Sherlock’s curls. They have managed to stay tamed down all day and now John can’t take it anymore. He demandingly licks into Sherlock’s mouth and moans against the taste of the overly sweet brew. For a few minutes, they simply enjoy the familiar taste of one another until Sherlock pulls back.

“Ask me.” His green eyes are alight tonight. John almost throws out all of his questions in order to get back to where they just left off.

He starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and says, “I think you already know what I want to ask.” A little shoulder roll is his answer as Sherlock shrugs out of his shirt. “But for the sake of time, tell me what you left out.” John runs his hands over the smooth pectorals and down Sherlock’s ribcage, relishing in the feel of heated skin over strong, lean muscle.

“I believe Isaak was connected with the mafia.” Sherlock says before grabbing John’s hands and licking at his fingertips.

 “Why would you leave that out?” John groans as Sherlock switches to nipping across the skin of John’s wrist.

Sherlock shrugs and when their eyes meet again, John knows he is telling the truth. “Isaak will know soon enough. He seems to be looking for a second chance, whether he is currently aware of it or not.” Sherlock kisses John again, slowly, drawing it out.

John kneads Sherlock’s bare shoulders, thrilled by the play of bone, muscle and sinew under his hands. When they break apart again for air, John cradles the back of Sherlock’s head in one hand and gazes up at him. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s deepest soul is apparent right then and there, and to John it is magnificent.

“I think I understand him.” He murmurs against John’s lips and John finds himself forgiving Sherlock all over again.

“Yes, love, you do.” Desire takes his words away and John wraps his legs around Sherlock’s hips and twists so that Sherlock lands on his back. In not much more time than that, they are both completely naked.

Soon after, John is kneeling on the bed, a gasping Sherlock splayed out like a feast in front of him. John snaps his hips and Sherlock meets him with every thrust, his thighs taut against John’s waist, ankles crossed at the small of John’s back. John shifts his weight enough to get his hands cupped beneath Sherlock’s ass, pushing his pelvis up at an even steeper angle. Sherlock lets out a deep moan that threatens to tear John apart on the seams.

Sherlock opens his eyes and purrs deeply, the sound practically subsonic, “Please.”

John removes one hand from underneath Sherlock and the detective balances himself on his elbows so as not to lose the angle. John slowly wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s straining prick and strokes him in time to John’s thrusts, each moan bringing John closer to his own climax. Sherlock’s thighs tremble as his orgasm rushes over him, drowning him in sensation, the aftershocks of which pull John down into his own until finally, both over-sensitized and sated, they collapse, remaining in a sweaty heap, thrilling in the closeness until a chill sets in.

Together, they shower and finally climb back into the bed and fall asleep, spooning tightly, John’s arm under Sherlock’s, palm splayed over his gently beating heart.

*

Sirko finally decides to give up the farce of sleeping. He walks down to the kitchen and switches on the kettle. He makes himself a cup of weak tea and carries it out to the dining area, then settles into one of the chairs. There are no windows in here, so he cannot look out into the Welsh night. For a while, he is alone with his thoughts. He wraps one big hand around the comfortably warm mug and tries to relax.

Sirko is mulling over what details Sherlock could have possibly omitted in that speech about his past when there is a light knock on the wall. He turns to see Jack standing there, fingers curled around his braces, gun holster empty.

“I guess you trust me enough to be unarmed.” Sirko states, and for the first time since he woke up on the bench outside the Hub, he allows a faint trace of humor into his voice.

“I don’t sleep much.” Jack offers Isaak a toothy smile. “May I?” He points at the chairs and sits, near but not touching Sirko in any way.

“How much of Sherlock’s information is true?” Sirko asks, straightforward.

“Probably all of it, if his rate of solving homicides and kidnapping cases is to be believed.” Jack stares down at the table that he is scratching with his index finger. Strands of his neat brown hair fall forward and he brushes them back where they belong.

“You don’t strike me as the type not to check on facts like that.” Sirko says.

“Well, I try not to come off like I know _everything._ ” Jack finally looks up at him, enjoying the thrill of the power he can almost taste emanating from this man.

Sirko laughs. “Don’t be absurd. I am a stranger among your chosen allies and the home you have built for yourself. I would be more insulted to find out you haven’t even tried to discover anything about me.”

“Until Ianto informed me earlier, we did not even know your last name.” Jack says pointedly.

 “Technically, then, neither did I.” Isaak drinks the last of his tea.

“Tomorrow is another day Isaak.” Jack stands and almost puts a hand on Isaak’s shoulder, then thinks better about it. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Isaak offers, finally feeling tired enough to try for more sleep. He walks slowly back to his cot, strips off his clothes and climbs into the clean white sheets. In between the fragmented memories of death and destruction, he keeps seeing a pair of sapphire blue eyes that are far too old for the face for which they peer out of and into his soul. For everything that was said tonight, the most important thing was left out: _If you learn about your past, do you desire going back?_

*

The next morning, John follows Tosh into Owen’s lab and sits down at the workstation. He offers Tosh a sheepish smile as he scratches at the back of his neck.

“Mind walking me through all of this? I can work with a normal computer but this is a little too advanced for me.” In the back of his mind he can hear a Sherlockian snort followed by a little rant about two-fingered typing. He gestures at the whole set-up.

Tosh returns the smile and brushes her hair back over her ear. While she enjoys the discussions with Sherlock whose vast intellect fascinates her, she shrinks back from his abrupt manners and his razor sharp eyes as soon as they leave science, technology and logic behind.

John, however, has a way of making people feel at ease and spontaneously trust him. Maybe it has to do with his small stature. Sherlock is so much taller, although, now that she thinks about it, he’s not that much taller than Jack, who is not intimidating at all. Often, Jack has to harden his voice to a sharp whip crack before any of his team actually listens to their orders.

Sherlock looks a lot taller than he actually is, though, taking up all the space in a room with barely an effort…which then leads her back to the subject at hand, Isaak Sirko: their ‘guest’. If anybody asked her, which hardly anybody ever does, she would insist on having him removed. There is something about him that is just scary, although his manners are impeccable and he seems an easy-going enough person; just more than guarded, perhaps _armored_ would be a better description.

“Tosh?” John’s voice pulls her out of her musings. She blinks and offers him another of her shy smiles.

“I’m sorry, I was lost there for a moment.” She adjusts her glasses and boots up Owen’s workstation. “Right, let me show you how our systems work, and how you access the medical files.”

She slowly walks him through the directory and explains Owen’s filing system. Most of the files are password protected but John isn’t interested anyway, all he wants is to access the test results of Isaak Sirko, and he asks Tosh if there is any cross reference material he might use in case he stumbles across something he cannot place.

“Well,” she frowns in concentration, “there are always our medical files.”

“The Torchwood team’s files?”

“Yes. I can give you access to our medical records while you are working on this project.”

“And are you OK with that? I mean, it’s confidential material, isn’t it?”

She smiles at him, a little impishly, he thinks. “It is. But we can always wipe your memory afterwards.”

He gives her a horrified look. “Would you do that?” _After all this time_ remains unspoken.

“I don’t think will be necessary. You’re a doctor and something of a Torchwood freelancer, and Jack trusts you. I’m just saying we could if need be.”

John shifts uneasily from one foot to another. The Sirko project has just lost some of its original appeal. Tosh brushes his arm, a bit surprised at how soft his steel grey jumper is against her fingertips.

“Don’t worry, John. You do what you think is necessary.” Tosh tells him.

“Here, this is the program you’ll need if you want to compare results and findings.” John catches on quickly. This is something he understands and he starts pulling Sirko’s test results.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Tosh turns with a wink and leaves him with the computers.

John wades through lab results and compares MRIs with X-rays and gets more confused by the minute. He is sure Owen has entered the data incorrectly, misplaced a comma here and there, put a number into the wrong column, and so he starts pulling the team’s data. There is nothing out of the ordinary.

Owen’s cholesterol and triglyceride levels are a tad high but not in the worrying range yet, Tosh’s blood sugar level was a bit above average for a while but has gone back to normal since then, Gwen’s X-rays show an old tibia fracture, Ianto’s data are schoolbook perfect, and Jack…

 John blinks rapidly, closes the window and re-opens it. There is something odd about Jack’s data. John knows that Jack used to work for a ‘Time Agency’, whatever that is, but it probably involves travelling through time – the name implies as much – and that in turn means the organism is subject to remaining in one time over a certain period, then return to where (or when) it came from, which in turn means that for the people staying behind the person had never left at all while in reality he or she was gone for, say, over a year, which in turn means…

 John rubs his hands over his face, determined not to follow that train of thought or it will give him a migraine. Thinking of time travelling does that to him, and he has never been much of a science fiction fan. Brain acrobatics are for the Holmeses and Stephen Hawking, not for the Watsons of the family. He shakes his head and decides to stick to the medical facts.

He looks up at the sound of familiar steps approaching, soft soles tapping against the tile floor. John smiles into Sherlock’s face and thinks how much he has changed since he has returned; how much, and at the same time, not at all. There are lines in his face that weren’t there before; he has gained a few pounds in muscle mass…

“Muscle tissue! Bone structure! Cell division!” he blurts out and jumps up to run into the team’s work section, leaving Sherlock behind who is caught between the overwhelming urge to peek into the Torchwood system, just a quick peek, and a sense of curiosity about John’s epiphany. He gives the work station a longing glance but follows his partner, a proud expression plastered on his face.

 “Tosh, can you access the files from here as well?”

An amused expression dances over Tosh’s delicate features. “I most certainly can. What would you like to see?”

“Isaak’s files. Jack’s, too. Please.”

Sirko looks up from where he is seated at Owen’s desk. He folds the newspaper he’s been reading and puts it on the small table. He crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap, for all the world appearing calm and unperturbed. It takes the sharp eyes and unerring observational skills of Sherlock to notice the slight contraction of the man’s pupils and the increased body tension.

Gwen looks up from her own monitor where she is putting some last-minute touches on a report from a few days ago, her attention drawn by John’s obvious excitement. She moves to stand beside Tosh.

Tosh pulls the requested files and John asks her to compare them side by side. Tosh does more than that by pulling the other screens into the loop so they all can see what John is referring to.

“Here!” He points. “Look at the increased lysosome count. And here,” he stabs the screen with his index finger, making Tosh wince as it shakes, “see how the mitochondria react?” He launches into a brief lecture on protein biosynthesis and comes back to the lysosomes being the cells’ waste disposal systems and elaborates on the mitochondria, the cells’ power plants supplying cellular energy as well as controlling the cell cycle and cell growth, and how they play a role in the aging process.

Gwen shakes her head and holds up her hands. “John, please, I’m sure it’s very fascinating how all these tiny black dots fuel each other and take the trash out, but where exactly are you headed?”

Sherlock finally joins them, standing behind John’s chair and silently analyzing everything.

“Wait until you see this.” John pecks away at the keyboard and Sirko’s MRI slides pop up on the monitor. John stares at them, transfixed. “They’re amazing. I have never seen anything like that.”

“What? Technically I know it’s MRI shots but really? They all look like Rorschach to me.” Gwen shrugs and John gives her a Look.

“Look really closely.” He takes a silver pen from Tosh’s desk and stretches so he can show the points of interest to the others. “See here? This is extraordinarily beautiful muscle tissue, perfectly striated and beautifully shaped.”

The sound of a throat being cleared announces Jack’s arrival. He ambles over to the side-by-side workstations, throws a fleeting glance at the monitors but then his attention rivets on something else entirely.

“I see,” he says lazily. “I’m looking at it right now.” His eyes are fixed on Sirko, on the triangle of tanned skin where the shirt collar opens over the hollow of Sirko’s throat and a most enticing small birthmark can be seen. He briefly wonders whether the man’s skin is as warm as it looks and an unhelpful image of a greying head flinging back to expose that throat floats through his mind.

Sirko seems to feel his gaze and looks away from the computer screen to focus on Jack. His eyes narrow speculatively but he shifts his attention back to John.

Jack sighs. “Listen, John, this is all most fascinating and I would love to hear more about striated tissue and mitochondria but I wonder whether you might be so kind as to share your…” he pauses and gives Sherlock a pointed stare, “deductions with us?”

Sherlock snorts rudely. John presses his lips together and inhales through his nose. So this is what it feels like to be pointing out the obvious to people who look but don’t see. He shoots an exasperated glance in Sherlock’s direction. The detective picks up on his thoughts loud and clear and responds with an amused twitch of his mouth. John sighs, puts down the pen, crosses his arms over his chest and takes a deep breath.

 “What I’ve been trying to explain, boys and girls, is the fact that something has happened to Isaak’s morphology that has systematically enhanced his cell division, the formation of blood cells and red and yellow bone marrow,” he catches Jack’s sideways glance, “listen, the point I’m trying to get across here is that Isaak has the biology of a healthy human male in his late twenties, early thirties although the records Tosh has managed to pull tell us he’s actually in his late forties.” John pauses, taking the time to really _look_ at Sirko for a moment.

John makes sure that they are all paying attention. Even Sherlock is hanging on every word and John can’t help but be impressed.“I am assuming, and I realize it’s little more than a semi-educated guess for the time being, that his healing abilities have been significantly enhanced somewhere along the way and his body’s aging process has, well, not come to a halt, but slowed down.” John shoots one last triumphant look in Jack’s direction. “In fact, Captain Jack, his biology is not all that different from yours. Whatever has happened to you that made you what you are has to a certain and probably lesser extent happened to him, too.”

An echo in the back of his mind says, _whatever remains after eliminating the impossible, however improbable, must be the truth._

The room has grown deathly silent. Jack’s face wears a frozen expression as he looks Sirko up and down. With an abrupt move he turns and snaps his fingers at John.

“Into my office. Now.”

John shrugs his shoulders and follows Jack. When he wants to close the door behind him, it is being pushed open and Sirko calmly steps inside. Jack looks at him and shakes his head.

“Not now, Isaak. At this stage, it’s need to know only.”

Sirko closes the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

“This concerns me personally and I need to know.”

“I am not discussing this –” Jack starts but is cut off abruptly.

“I wasn’t striking up a conversation. I will hear what John has to say and there’s that.”

John closes his eyes and counts to five. When he opens them again, Jack and Sirko have locked eyes and John stomps a foot impatiently.

“Don’t go there,” he growls lowly. “I will not tolerate this kind of alpha male nonsense. What is it with you big guys that you always have to pull this shit?”

Two sets of eyes fix on him in amazement. John raises his chin and meets each stare defiantly. Sirko is the first to relax and his eyes lose their gunmetal coldness as he looks John’s short frame up and down.

“Hear hear,” he says with a low chuckle. “It is the disease of not listening that troubles the good doctor.”

Jack huffs. “Beware, a poet.” But he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he makes an inviting gesture to the two chairs that stand before the desk, and sits down in his leather seat, puts his hands behind his head and looks impatiently at John.  

“What you were saying out there, John,” he makes a point of addressing only the doctor, “Am I correct in assuming that Isaak’s biology has been altered in such a way that his overall aging process is delayed?”

“Something like that, yeah.” John nods, a trifle weary now that the rush of the discovery is beginning to wear off. “I know it sounds mad and I need to look at all of this again…”

“Not crazy at all,” Jack interrupts him. “As a matter of fact, I’m not really surprised. When we found him outside, Ianto scanned him and the scanner basically went apeshit with Rift energy. It reminded me of something I haven’t felt in a while.” His voice trails off and his eyes lose focus for a moment.

“You mind explaining this to me?” Sirko’s calm voice reminds Jack of the immediate issue.

“I believe you’ve been exposed to what we call the Rift,” Jack says slowly. “The Rift is something like a wormhole with one end here in Cardiff and the other, well,” he spreads his hands, “floating about wherever. Most of the time it lies dormant, but there are times when things come through, artifacts, extraterrestrial life-forms, basically things that don’t belong here in this place and time.”

“Like me.” Sirko says drily.

“I haven’t made up my mind about you yet.” Jack meets Sirko’s eyes and holds his gaze for a moment. “Anyway. Apart from allowing things to wash up here, the Rift occasionally causes time shifts, too, so two different points in time and space sort of overlap.” He leans forward. “I believe that when you fell into the Rift-wherever that was-you fell into such an overlap and, well, washed up here.”

Sirko sits very still but John can almost hear the man’s thoughts race through his brain.

“Listen,” he says, “I know it’s a lot to take in and you are probably thinking you are surrounded by a bunch of nutters. I know I did.” John gives Sirko a tight smile. “But if I give you my word you are not being bullshitted here, will you believe me?”

Sirko looks at the two men and weighs their words against what he has experienced and what he remembers. It doesn’t make much sense, all this talk about a _rift_ and _time shifts,_ but then again, nothing has been making much sense lately, and so he merely shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s as good an explanation as any, I suppose. For now, at least. I do expect to be kept in the loop. I’m not letting you go just like that, Jack.”

“I know. Please don’t.” Jack’s face is inscrutable but to John’s Sherlock-trained eyes, his fascination with the quiet man is obvious. _Intriguing_. He makes a mental note to himself to speak to Sherlock about this when Jack rubs his hands together and gets up from his leather chair.

“I don’t know about you but I could murder a pint. Pub, anyone?” Without waiting for a reply, he strides out of the office in search of the others.

John and Sirko look at each other and Sirko gives John one of his half-smiles. “Do I have my doctor’s permission for an evening out with the team?”

John chuckles, his mouth watering at the thought of an ice-cold pint. “Permission granted. Let’s go.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear me, Mr. Holmes, I had no idea you were under police observation."

 

>  
> 
> “Sometimes a smile is just a smile and a dance is just a dance. It is all about nuance. Not everything has to have a deeper meaning; yet, there are times when the hidden meaning is so difficult to unravel that we need to swallow our pride and ask for help.”
> 
> -excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones

The small, fast spacecraft, _Time’s Ravages_ , is orbiting Earth. Millions of electronic pulses are zipping back and forth from the craft to the surface.

Toron Eiam sits at the helm of his ship and glares at the humanoid on the com-screen. His patience is fading with every word coming out of the disgusting creature’s mouth.

“Master Toron, I was so sure I had cleaned up the meeting place, I swear I didn’t know I had dropped one of them…” The man stands with his hands down at his sides, his head bowed so that Toron can see the top of the bright blue knit cap he is wearing. Toron despises it, despises everything about the human race with every fiber of his being.

The Khizgaar Master shifts in his chair, slams a fist against the arm of it. The man on the com-screen blanches and stammers. “Shut it.” Toron orders, his voice deep and gravelly and very, very controlled. The man on the screen obeys and stands shaking.

Toron takes a breath and lets it slide through his thick lips. His black eyes flick around the room, finally settling on an underling he can send down to the worthless planet to clean up the mess. He points at the female and orders her down to the lab to change her appearance. The female nods curtly without asking questions, like any true Khizgaar would when receiving orders from the Master; keeping her own eyes averted from the Master’s face.

 

*

The pub around them is busy enough to provide background noise without being overwhelming. Jack’s declaration that he could murder a pint was about the best suggestion John heard all day.

John thinks that Sirko took the news exceedingly well, considering how bizarre it all really is in the scheme of things. He sips his dark lager slowly, enjoying the feel of the cool beer as it quenches his parched throat. John is not used to talking so much when they are on a case and there is no doubt that this certainly is one of epic proportions.

Sherlock sits next to him, carefully observing as three Torchwood team members plus Sirko play billiards at one of the two tables in the dimly lit corner. Gwen said she preferred to get home to her fiancé, given that they have little enough time to themselves. So it is Ianto, Jack and Tosh drinking bottled beer; Sirko stalks around the table with the cue in his hand, occasionally sipping from a tumbler that holds translucent amber liquid that catches the lights from the ceiling as he moves.

Beside John, Sherlock is fiddling with a tiny orange umbrella stuck in the top of his rather alarmingly yellow drink. John is pretty sure that the thing is toxic or contains at least a month’s worth of sugar, but the detective is really drinking it as he takes in the game. He leans over and takes a sniff of the beverage, it’s truly nothing he recognizes but he swears he smells pineapple and mangoes of all things. He follows Sherlock’s line of sight to where Ianto and Tosh are high-fiving over the last three remaining balls.

“Sherlock, do you play?” John asks, expecting the standard answer of deleted it. Instead, he finds himself pleasantly surprised.

“I do, on occasion.” Sherlock picks up his mysteriously fruity cocktail and carries it over towards the game, sauntering agilely between empty tables. He expertly sets up the rack with the red and yellow balls in the correct pattern. John smiles and grabs a stick from the holder on the wall then moves around to get into playing position. He lets Sherlock break first and the only sound for a few moments is the clacking of the balls rolling over the surface of the table as they try to outdo each other in sinking them. Neither is playing by any rules, just warming up. John is also half-listening to the conversation at the other table as Jack talks smack to his team.

“Come on, Tosh, are you afraid to hit balls?” Jack teases at the sound of the cue glancing hard off the side of the ball she is aiming for. He takes a drink of his beer and licks some foam from his lips.

Tosh throws him a set of stink eyes. “Come on over here, I need more practice!” She retorts, laughing and holding the stick out across the table in the direction of Jack’s groin. Jack turns and shakes his denim-clad rear end in her direction and gives it a smack with his hand.

Ianto laughs, and proceeds to start sinking balls. He handles the cue like he handles everything from weapons to tea kettles: calmly and with purpose.

John takes another sip of his lager and turns to a smirking Sherlock who has single-handedly cleared the table. The detective is sitting on the corner of it, twirling the cue and looking quite contented with himself. John shakes his head and laughs.

“Well, you weren’t paying attention.” Sherlock offers. He hops off the table as John resets the rack. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he very slowly leans across the velvet, sets the cue behind his back and breaks. This results in his chest being forced outward; straining the buttons on the hunter green dress shirt he is wearing. The muscles in his forearms show plainly under the rolled-up sleeves as he takes the shot. John hurriedly gulps down another drink of lager.

“Don’t cheat.” He says directly to his pint. Sherlock has the audacity to laugh, knowing full well what he just did to his partner. John looks up to him and sets the glass down on the bench against the wall, intent on meeting the challenge.

They settle down and John is happy to see that Sherlock is enjoying himself. Of course the fact that he is soundly beating John’s trousers off probably has a large part to play in that assumption as well. By the time they are setting up for their third game, Ianto has joined them amid catcalls from the others. John is into his fourth lager and Sherlock still has yet to finish his original cocktail.

Ianto plays well and with him on John’s team, they beat Sherlock. Sherlock is setting the rack when John excuses himself to the loo. When he returns, Sherlock and Ianto are standing at the front of their table talking to Owen Harper. Ianto is the one doing the talking, however, John sees as he moves into the space. Ianto appears to be listening but Sherlock’s focus is on John.

When Owen spots John, he holds out his hand.

John eyes it for a moment then looks up to Ianto who smiles briefly. John shakes Owen’s hand, blaming the beer buzz for the slightly stronger squeeze than he would normally give.

“John, I would like to apologize for all the shit I said to you.” Owen’s expression is open and honest.

John considers him for a moment. “I’m not here to take your place, Owen. You know better than that.” He says, sternly. Without a doubt, Owen is good at his job. John feels that he needs to learn to take a bit more pride in it; just because he prefers the tech-and-lab-work end of being a physician does not make him in lesser in John’s eyes.

“I know John, I’m an arse.” Owen agrees with a weak smile.

“You do know that Jack taking you off suspension really has nothing to do with me, right?” John asks as he leans against the side of the table. Sherlock, sensing the situation is not about to erupt, moves back to set up another game.

“Yeah, I do. It’s all good, mate.” Owen looks worried for a second as John’s hand is reaching up toward him. John gives him a good slap on the shoulder to show him that the air between them has cleared and turns back to the game.

Everything is running smoothly as the pub slowly begins to empty out, the weekday crowd returning home for a few hours of rest before getting up and starting all over. Outside the glass windows at the front of the pub, the darkness is glossy from a light rain. Tiny pinpoints of white, red, and green lights sparkle in the distance of the city around them.

Jack’s laugher is suddenly the loudest noise in the place, even beyond the soulful tunes Ianto has picked out on the old jukebox in the corner.

Tosh catches it as John and Sherlock exchange a small, secret smile. Their faces are completely unguarded and the unabashed longing in their eyes makes her breath hitch.

“The cat that got the canary and the cream.” She says, mostly to herself.

On her left, Jack cannot let that one go. He holds up the bottle he is drinking from and Tosh clinks hers against it. “True love,” he says with a smile that would be considered downright sappy on anyone else. On Jack, though, it just seems wistful.

“I’m happy for him.” Tosh observes.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack agrees.

She excuses herself for a few moments and Jack starts joking drolly with the bartender while Sirko is polishing off yet another neat whiskey. The atmosphere is relaxed and calm and there is no one left in the place except for them. However, a youth has just come in, his face hidden in the shadows beneath the top part of the black hoodie he is wearing. Jack gives him a quick glance, decides he is harmless enough and continues chatting up the bartender when the silence of the room is ripped in twain by an otherworldly screech. A brown skinned, sparsely-haired creature is skulking into the room holding one arm tightly to its body. The worn out yellow t-shirt it is wearing is stained with blood.

John and Owen look at each other from across the room, immediately realizing the creature is in need of medical attention. John senses rather than hears Sherlock start as if to approach it.

“Sherlock, these things can be dangerous when they are provoked. They are primitive and have the reflexes of a mongoose.” Sherlock nods and John moves forward, glad that Sherlock understands that sometimes they need to swap places and the detective has to be the backup.

By that time, Ianto and Owen are advancing on the alien, prepared to take it to the floor.

“It is hurt, guys, take it down easy. Humerus fracture.” Owen is on that side as he and Ianto carefully drift closer in to it. The Weevil seems to wobble on its feet a little and then crashes to the floor just as Owen grabs its shoulder and Ianto grasps its left arm. John moves in, quickly takes stock of its emaciated condition and the nasty knife wound across the back of its neck. If he is honest with himself, the wretched thing doesn’t look like it is long for this life.

The sympathetic expression on Ianto’s face catches Sherlock’s attention. “It seems harmless enough, why hurt it that way?” He rumbles as he is kneeling down beside where John is pointing out to Owen another knife wound on the back of its thigh. At one time the creature must have been wearing trousers, as its upper legs are encased in shredded denim. They all agree the Weevil has been horribly mistreated so no one is holding it down, thinking it is too injured to fight them, and when it bucks upwards and rolls to its good side with a strength belied by its condition, it knocks them all off balance. John flies into Sherlock, Owen holds onto its unhurt arm and Ianto gets a good knock across the face with its shoulder as it rises. Blood is now weeping from its numerous wounds and it is screaming, gnashing its teeth and clawing at them with its good hand. Sherlock is already moving towards the floor in an effort to knock the thing off its feet.

They are too busy to notice that the boy in the hoodie is now standing beside Jack who has frozen to the spot, eyeing the boy with open curiosity despite the circumstances of the boy holding out a long silver weapon shaped like a miniature torpedo between them.

“Look, whatever you came here for, I’m sure we can talk about it rationally,” Jack says and raises his hands. Although the boy’s eyes are shaded by the hood, Jack sees them dart between him and where Sirko sits, a looming presence in the background, as if to assess Jack’s accessibility.

Hoodie suddenly lunges forward and makes a stabbing motion towards Jack’s chest with the weapon clutched in his filthy, scabby hand. Against the grime a gold ring stands out, very large around the boy’s thumb. Acting on pure instinct, Sirko is off the bar stool in an instant. He snatches the boy’s bony wrist in a tight grip while at the same time pushing Jack to the side and back so he is shielded by Sirko’s body. The silver weapon clatters to the floor as Sirko kicks the boy’s feet out from under him.

Tosh comes running back through the door with something in her hand. As the rest of the team manages to subdue the Weevil, Tosh jumps at the sound the would-be assassin hitting the floor with a thud, barely missing stabbing herself in the thigh with the hypodermic needle she has just used on the creature. She remains seated on its legs, however, as it slowly succumbs to the tranquilizer. Owen is at its head, trying to keep it from smashing its oddly-shaped skull against the wooden floor as its wretched attempts to get away from them weaken. Sherlock is getting back to his feet; John and Ianto are moving towards Jack, Sirko, and the kid with the shiv.

Sirko holds the wriggling boy in place with brute force and pushes the hood away from his face to reveal that Jack’s attacker is not a boy after all. Red eyes streaming with tears are looking up at him.

Jack leans down and takes the shiny ring from her thumb. “Where did you get this?” He asks from behind a gun that he has seemingly removed from thin air, giving no quarter to the fact that girl looks as if she cannot possibly be more than fourteen years old.

Tosh takes in the tears streaming down the girl’s face and kneels next to her. The girl turns her head to the side, expecting sympathy but receiving only the tiniest hint of it from Tosh. “Give us the answers we need and we will see you get some help.”

The girl nods her head and a heavy fringe of greasy hair falls from her forehead to show that she has been tattooed: a strange rune-like symbol in the center of an oval shape. Tosh frowns and looks up at Jack, who is still staring down the barrel of his gun.

“Tell him,” she urges.

“Toron sent me.” The girl whispers between chafed lips.

“And the ring.” Jack barks.

The girl begins to tremble and then convulse against Sirko’s hold.

“John!” Jack shouts.

John grabs Sherlock’s hand from where he and Owen are trying to get the Weevil out of the building and trades places with the detective who is quite amazed to learn that the creature is much heavier than it would seem to be. Outside, Sherlock leaves the Weevil to Owen and starts rumaging under the seats of the SUV. Owen shrugs a little and decides its probably in his best interest to just ignore him and so turns his attention back to the alien in order to ensure it is securely locked in to the cargo area.

John rushes to Jack’s side just in time to see the girl spasm and vomit foam before collapsing on her side. She is gasping for breath at the same time John is trying for a pulse.

“Tosh, I know there’s a medical kit in the SUV, I need it stat.” John states, his voice sounding calmer and more in control than he feels at the moment. Tosh jumps to her feet and makes it to the door of the pub, almost crashing into Sherlock who is already coming back in with the large black case in his hand.

His long strides make short work of the place and in seconds John is opening the case and searching through supplies the likes of which the detective has never seen.

“Hang on, love, we can get you out of whatever you’ve gotten yourself into.” John croons softly as he slides a needle into the girl’s arm, which is being held steady by Owen. After a few heartbeats, she stills and stops convulsing but her breathing does not even out.

After five minutes more, she stops breathing altogether. “Damn.” Owen mutters.

John stands and turns away from the scene with his head down and shoulders slumped. Sherlock starts to follow, but Jack reaches out and stops him with a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “Give him a minute.”

Sherlock frowns and tries to catalog John’s reaction for further study. He nods and sits down on a pub stool beside Sirko whose expression has turned inward. He does not see Owen and Ianto carry the girl’s wretched body out of the pub; he does not see Sherlock finally step up behind John and wrap the smaller man in his arms; and he most certainly does not see the second ring that Jack takes out of his pocket to compare it to the newest one.

Sirko _remembers._

It’s all right there for him to see. He doesn’t know what triggered the retrieval of his memories – the thrill of the fight, albeit brief? The rush of adrenaline through his system? – he doesn’t care.

All he cares about is the feeling of his brain not being a semi-blank canvas anymore. What does strike him as odd, however, is the fact that the sudden intake of data doesn’t make him feel nauseous. Given how the short flashbacks of the past days have gone, he should be cramping on the floor, vomiting his insides out. Instead, he is perfectly at ease, as if a dark corridor is suddenly flooded with light.

He sees it all. Viktor. His house back in Kiev. The Brotherhood. George Novikov, the lying bastard, pointing a gun at him. Sirko puts a hand to the left side of his abdomen where George’s bullet hit him and he remembers the overwhelming pain and the massive blood loss. The green-eyed ginger man who took him on his boat – A Slice of Life – and stayed by his side as his body was dying… Dexter. Dexter Morgan. A strange bond had just begun to form between them and who knows what might have happened if George hadn’t shot him. Sirko’s mind travels back to Viktor, his Viktor, his love. Young, handsome, impulsive, passionate. Sirko rubs a hand over his eyes. Viktor, now dead and gone, lying on the ocean’s floor with his head bashed in by Dexter Morgan. If only this time rift had taken him back before all this happened, then Viktor might still be alive.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts but another fragment struggles to the surface. Toron. Who is Toron? This particular memory is still off in a haze. He sees himself standing in a cone of light, shielding his eyes against its brightness while a gravelly voice keeps repeating the same words over and over again. Something about a ring. What ring? He doesn’t wear jewellery besides his wristwatch and his cufflinks. Wait, there used to be a ring on his right index finger. He doesn’t recall its origin, he’s had it for a while and has grown accustomed to it. He looks down at his right hand but there is no ring. Instead, there’s a band of pale skin on his index finger where a ring should have been, it stands out against his tan. Toron. ‘J _oin us and you will be handsomely rewarded_ ’. What was that all about? All he can do is wait and hope that this memory, too, will be fed back into his brain, just like the others.

He looks up and notices the others have already left so he rises from the bar stool and walks outside to meet them.

John and Sherlock stand together under the awning of the pub. Tosh takes John’s hand. Sherlock stiffens but since John is leaning on him, he says nothing.

“Thanks for trying to help her.” Tosh’s eyes shine with the emotions she will not allow herself to feel until she is alone.

“You’re welcome.” John says and pulls her into a hug. After that, they part ways. Tosh goes home to catch some much needed sleep while Ianto, Owen, Sirko and Jack get into the van and head for the Hub. The pub is only a couple of blocks from the hotel where they are staying, so John and Sherlock walk back. It helps to clear John’s head. As they step out of the lift onto their floor, John sighs deeply.

“I know it wasn’t my fault, but it’s always hard to lose one.” He flicks his keycard through the reader. The door clicks and Sherlock pushes it open. They do not turn any of the lights on but cross the room towards the bed together. Both of them shed their clothing and crawl into the bed and into each other’s arms. John drops off to sleep quickly, but Sherlock stays awake most of the night thinking about everything he has seen so far and what the meaning of it could be.

 

*

Back at the Hub, Ianto carries the girl’s body down to Owen’s lab. Owen and Jack take the Weevil and place it in one of the empty cells. Owen quickly sets the broken arm and stitches up the worst of the Weevil’s injuries.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it.” Owen tells Jack as he strips off his gloves.

“Why?” Jack asks. He is leaning with one hip against the doorjamb of the cell.

“I’m not even sure if I should have put the stitches in because the injuries are already grey and the top layer of skin is starting to slough off.” Owen wipes sweat from his forehead. He sighs and gives the Weevil a little pat on the uninjured arm. He slides the door shut and looks up at Jack.

Jack thinks that Owen has a soft spot for the primitive race.

“Jack, look, I’m sorry,” Owen begins.

“Forget it, Owen.” Jack crosses his arms over his chest. “You and John seem to have reached an agreement; that is good enough for me. Just try and control the bullshit, yeah?”

Owen nods. Jack slaps him on the back. “Good. You can return to your duties tomorrow then. First thing on the agenda is helping John run some more tests on our tall, handsome stranger.”

Owen snorts and turns the lights off before following Jack back up the steps.

He nods his good-byes to Sirko and Jack and makes his way towards the exit, knowing that tomorrow his usual place will be waiting for him. His heart is much lighter now and he grudgingly admits to himself that he was scared shitless there for a while, scared of being kicked out of Torchwood for good, of being ret-conned. He really must try and get his act together if he wants to keep this job which has come to mean more to him than he realized.

Sirko is standing at the catwalk rail with his head tilted back as the resident pterosaur, Myfawny, glides about with his wings outstretched. He does not seem as amazed with the creature as others before him; perhaps it is a tell that gives away his current state of mind.

Jack studies Sirko for a while, trying to wrap his mind around what happened at the pub. Not the Weevil, not the fighting, not the game of pool, and certainly not the flirting with the bartender. No, all this is not new, it’s been part of his life for longer than he cares to remember. His mind keeps replaying the few seconds between a silver weapon being thrust at him and a huge body coming from out of nowhere to shield him… to protect him? He doesn’t need protection. Or does he? He certainly doesn’t spend much time thinking about it, given the fact that he cannot die. But Sirko doesn’t know that yet. He looks the other man up and down and it is then that he realizes that something has changed.

“Sirko –” he starts but is cut off. Again. It could be seriously annoying if only…

"Jack," there is a new undertone to Sirko's voice. "I remember."

 

*

Toron is furious. The female underling failed to meet his expectations and he was forced to waste her. That expense is coming out of someone’s hide and it will come soon. He paces the length of the floor in his bedroom, angry thoughts virtually apparent for anyone with enough guts to actually look in through the smoked glass window in the sliding door. There is not, though, no one with that type of stupid courageousness. Not on his ship.

He finally stops pacing, ending up in front of the full-length mirror. Toron intently studies his own reflection with his cold, dark eyes. Toron thinks about Earth coffee and decides that perhaps the time is right for him to have a visit with a few of his associates on the tiny planet in order to discuss this organization known as _Torchwood_.

 

*

At the Hub the next morning, the Torchwood team plus John and Sherlock are all busy with their given jobs. Tosh and Sherlock look up from the bank of monitors as a rough grinding sound announces a new arrival.

The lift reaches the bottom and two men step off. The taller of the two removes his black leather gloves and looks about disapprovingly.

“Well, well,” he says. “Some things never change.”

At the sound of his voice, Jack glances up and a wide grin splits his face.

“Mr. Holmes! So good of you to come by.”

No one except Tosh notices that Sherlock seems to fade into the shadows at the sound of his brother’s voice. She just shrugs and gets back to the database she has been working on.

Jack swings his legs off the couch where he’s been idling under the pretense of putting the bits and pieces about the mysterious rings together when in fact he is thinking about what to do with Isaak Sirko. Now that his memory has returned, it will become a major challenge to hide his past involvement with organized crime from the team.

Tosh is itching to find out about him; the ‘access denied’ screen that pops up whenever she enters his name is enough to make it her personal mission to find out. Jack would not be surprised if she hacks her way through the walls he’s set. He would not say it out loud, but he is glad to see Mycroft Holmes who has a knack for dealing with situations like this.

With easy strides he crosses the distance of the work space and extends his hand towards Mycroft who eyes him down his long nose, but shakes his hand nevertheless.

“How could I resist your summoning,” Mycroft murmurs but Jack has already shifted his attention to the quiet man standing behind Mycroft.

“You didn’t say you were bringing a friend,” Jack says accusingly as he lets his gaze sweep over the man appreciatively and offers him his hand as well. “Jack Harkness. Hi. And you are?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, New Scotland Yard,” Greg introduces himself and takes Jack’s hand with a firm grip.

“Detective Inspector. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, I had no idea you were under police observation.” Jack quips, giving the detective another look from under his eyelashes.

“Police protection, if you will. I had dealings with the South Wales Police.” The DI’s voice has a husky tone to it that makes Jack take a closer look. _Hello handsome._

Before Greg can continue, however, Mycroft cuts in. “Inspector Lestrade occasionally stands in for my security detail, if need be.” They make their way across the work area, passing Tosh who exchanges a nod with Mycroft. She wonders for an instant whether he notices the distinct lack of his consulting brother in the space where he was not three minutes ago.

“And as it happened, his schedule coincided with mine and he was kind enough to offer his assistance.” Mycroft’s cool blue-and-grey eyes meet Jack’s with an unspoken challenge. “I believe it was my advice you wanted, a matter beyond your expertise? I must admit I was rather amazed such a thing existed.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Jack blithely states. “But, yes, we have something of a situation here and it might just be within your range.”

As if on cue, Sirko emerges from Owen’s lab where he has agreed to a few more physical exams by John. He scans Mycroft but his face remains impassive and he quietly makes his way to the now deserted couch to sit down and read the newspaper.

Mycroft turns towards Greg. “Detective Inspector, would you mind waiting here while I discuss…things with Captain Harkness?”

Greg shrugs. “Certainly. Any chance I might get a coffee around here?” He adds, hopefully.

“Sure. All you ever have to do is ask. Torchwood won’t deny you anything. Well, I won’t.” Jack bestows another beaming smile on the handsome police officer.

In the background, Sirko lifts his gaze from the newspaper.

Jack continues, unaware of being under scrutiny, “Ianto should be back any minute, and Gwen only stepped outside for a moment, phone call, I think. By the way, Gwen used to be a policewoman, so the two of you might have some fun police stories to swap." He nods to where Sirko sits. “Or else you can ask Isaak over there to share his newspaper with you.” Then, as if on second thought, “Or maybe not.” He grins. “I’m not sure I can handle the sight of two stone foxes sitting next to each other.”

“Your office, Captain Harkness?” Mycroft’s voice has taken on a silken quality. “I would so hate to waste my time while you talk stone foxes and more or less offer yourself to Inspector Lestrade.”

“Merely offering to support the police to the best of my abilities.” Jack beams.

Mycroft looks at Jack’s smile and thinks of nails screeching across a slate. “Your office.” He repeats coldly, and Jack reluctantly turns to lead the way, his formerly boyish expression falling into a tighter, more business-like mask.

When the door closes behind them, Greg exhales and rolls his eyes, just a little. “Is he always like that?” He asks, to no one in particular.

From the steps leading to the lab, John Watson says, “He is always like that. Exactly like that.” He walks over to Greg and the two men slap each other’s shoulders heartily.

“Greg,” John smiles, “good to see you.”

They exchange a few pleasantries, then Greg asks again, “Jack Harkness. Is he for real or is this just an act? Felt like he was measuring me.”

John chuckles. “He was, without a doubt. He’s always cruising for fresh meat, in a manner of speaking. I mean, I really like him, he’s a great bloke, but a bit of a slut.”

He slips off the lab coat he is wearing and drapes it neatly over his arm. Tosh giggles softly behind them and John turns to catch her eye, noticing Sherlock is gone. She just tilts her head a little and John lets it go.

“Is he now.” A rustling sound is heard from the couch and Greg and John turn their attention to Sirko who has folded the newspaper and is now staring at them with his legs crossed and that inscrutable look John finds unnerving without knowing why. He’s been around the Holmeses enough, for heaven’s sake, and he is accustomed to be scanned by all-seeing eyes but Sirko’s stare has an altogether different quality to it.

“Is he now.” Sirko repeats in a softer voice and a peculiar little smile makes the corners of his mouth twitch. “Interesting.” He looks Greg up and down but his gaze has nothing in common with Jack’s flirtatious ways.

Greg returns the look, cop and killer recognizing each other for what they are, but since Mycroft has already briefed him on what-and whom-to expect, Greg does not say anything.

Sirko gets up.

“You asked for a coffee?” He says.

Greg nods.

“Well, I have no idea where Ianto is and when he returns, so let me take care of that. I could use one, too.”

“Thank you,” Greg says politely, with just a touch of frost in his voice.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr. Sirko,” Mycroft begins. “Captain Harkness has a rather interesting offer to make and I strongly advise you to consider his proposal.”

> “ **Authority** is often a fluctuating state of affairs; it can be given or taken by those with more or less of it…sometimes it comes naturally; yet sometimes one finds oneself in a position to wield it quite grudgingly.
> 
> Often the explorer/adventurer wants nothing more out of life except for those two things and finds wearing the mantle of authority difficult at best, and quite smothering to creative freedom at worst.”
> 
> -from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

 

Mycroft does not wait for Jack to offer him one of his visitors’ chairs. He sits down gracefully, pulls his tablet computer from out of his slim briefcase and flicks the screen open.

“Captain Harkness, from what I have gathered, Sirko has ‘washed up on your shores,’ as you so eloquently put it, and you believe it has to do with Rift activities?”

“Oh, but it has _everything_ to do with Rift activities.” Jack briefly sums the situation up, his attitude having lost all playfulness. Mycroft is reminded just why he puts up with him. Behind the annoying debonair façade, Jack Harkness is a seasoned professional who has seen and experienced more than Mycroft can ever hope for. If the price weren’t so extraordinarily high, he might envy him for it. While immortality sounds nice enough in novels, Mycroft is not sure it’s something he would aspire to.

“And might I enquire as to why you’re thinking about adding him to your team instead of turning him over to the police?” Mycroft asks.

“Oh, I am not going to euphemize his crimes, but his special set of skills might just be what we’re lacking.” Jack leans back in his chair and puts his hands together on his desk. “I have a gut feeling that he doesn’t want to return to his old life but without interesting enough missions on his hands, crime and violence is all he has left.”

This touches a sore spot with Mycroft, hidden away safely and inextricably linked to someone else, and so he slowly nods, indicating his understanding.

Jack continues, “I don’t think the Koshka Brotherhood would take him back; not after his business partner trying to kill him. That doesn’t leave an awful lot of options.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft briefly ponders this. “And your motives for allowing a stranded mobster into your team are of a strictly altruistic nature and have nothing to do with the obvious mutual attraction?”

“Come again?” Jack gives him a stunned look and feels treacherous heat creep up his neck. Bloody Holmeses. He has been trying to keep his personal encounters with the older Holmes as brief as possible and prefers to communicate via e-mail or telephone. Now it seems that in addition to being a pompous git, Mycroft _bloody_ Holmes is just as rude below the polished surface as his younger brother; he just hides it better.

Jack would like to end the conversation right there and then, if only…

“Yeah. He’s hot. So what,” he hears himself say. “That’s not why I want him on board. If his looks were all he has to offer, then I would shag him and send him packing without him even remembering.” He leans forward, frowning. “I wasn’t lying about his set of skills. We could use somebody who isn’t squeamish about getting his hands dirty or apply blunt force, if necessary, but we don’t need a dumb rowdy.”

 “Your usual approach of shag and go may not be the wisest of strategies here, Captain Harkness.” Mycroft leans back and looks at Jack with barely concealed amusement. Jack stares right back, tense.

“I believe you are in for a major surprise. Isaak Sirko may prove to be more than you bargained for. May I make a suggestion?”

Jack doesn’t want to dig for the hidden meaning behind that so he shrugs and listens to what Mycroft has to say, interjecting some ideas of his own, and when they come to an agreement, Mycroft nods.

“I would have a few words with Mr. Sirko now, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, why not. Want me to leave?”

“No. If he is going to be on your team, he will be your responsibility. You need to hear everything that is spoken.” Mycroft says, ignoring Jack’s subtle accusation at pulling rank.  

“Oh. Oh well then. Let me go get him.” _Your Highness._ Jack really, really wants to say it, but in light of the situation that seems to be going his way for a change, he bites his tongue. No use baiting the Tiger who is actually on your side this time.

While Jack goes in search of Sirko, Mycroft messages Anthea, asking her to stand by. This is going to be another task he will not entrust anybody else with, not at this early stage. Anthea’s reply consists of one word only:

“Affirmative.”

Mycroft looks up when Jack returns with Sirko and gestures toward the second chair. Sirko sits down and meets Mycroft’s speculative gaze with one of his own.

_So this is Sherlock’s brother_. At first sight, they seem to have nothing in common, but if one looks closer, it is their way of looking at whatever captures their interest that gives their similarities away. Sirko feels like an insect under a microscope as the blue-and-grey laser beams focus on him. He is used to staring contests, however; he does not fidget, and waits, unmoved.

“Mr. Sirko,” Mycroft begins. “Captain Harkness has a rather interesting offer to make and I strongly advise you to consider his proposal.” He turns to Jack. “Captain Harkness, if you please.”

Jack nods and outlines what they have worked out. Sirko sits back while he listens, his body relaxing and eyes intent. When Jack finishes, he slowly crosses his legs.

“Am I correct in understanding that you are offering me a permanent position with Torchwood? Not only as part of the team but in charge of the overall handling of business and strategic issues?”

“Yes,” comes Jack’s simple reply.

“And why is that? Are you always this quick when it comes to recruiting?”

“Mr. Sirko, as Captain Harkness has pointed out to me in our previous discussion, your particular set of skills, if you pardon me using your words, Captain, are quite unique and might prove extraordinarily useful to the work that Torchwood encounter.”

“What, trafficking and drugs?” Sirko says mockingly.

“I was referring to your organizational abilities. As I am reliably informed, your position with the Koshka Brotherhood was within…mhm…let’s call is upper management.” Mycroft states, his expression unscrutable. “To have reached these ranks in an organization like that not only requires skills of the kind Captain Harkness is primarily referring to.” He pauses to allow his words to sink in. “It takes a considerable amount of political instinct, knowledge of human nature and management skills to survive in the world of organized crime. Impeccable manners and social skills are a prerequisite as well, absurd as it may sound.”

Sirko’s mouth twitches and he leans forward. “And you plan to pull this through how? I believe there is plenty of material to be found on me and my glorious career. How do you plan to handle that?”

“Your criminal records and police files?” Mycroft waves his hand dismissively. “Files can be wiped clean.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Unless you prefer a new identity?”

Sirko frowns. “Could you do that?”

“Certainly.” Mycroft’s tone leaves no doubt.

Sirko purses his lips and thinks. After a few moments he shakes his head. “Tempting, but no. Isaak Sirko it is.”

“Very well. Please excuse me for a second.” He picks up his mobile and speed dials a number. When he is connected, he says, “Proceed,” and ends the call.

Sirko gives a small smile. “That’s what I call efficient.”

Mycroft returns the smile and Jack snorts. “What have I done? You two make a fine pair.” He stands. “Are we good then?”

“I have one more thing I would like to discuss with Mr. Holmes. Alone, please. If you don’t mind, Jack.” He looks up at Jack and wonders why he feels the urge to apologize.

Jack shrugs his shoulders. “Discuss away. I’ll be with the team.” With that, he strolls outside and closes the door behind him.

Mycroft shifts his attention towards Sirko. “What is it you wish to discuss with me?”

“It’s two things, actually. Firstly, I will not spy on Jack. I don’t know what your personal motives are behind your approval-I take it you are in a position to approve or disapprove?” When Mycroft does not say anything but merely nods, Sirko continues. “I am not sure what strings are attached to this post, but I will not report to you on Jack behind his back.”

“Understood. It is not expected of you. Torchwood operates relatively independently. However, you are aware that files that have been wiped have the tendency to reappear when needed the least. In other words, you step behind _my_ back and the records are back online.”

They lock eyes and Sirko nods in acknowledgement of the thinly-veiled threat.

“And the second matter?”

“I have personal funds stowed away and I wish to transfer them into a Swiss account so I may draw on them when needed. Is it possible for you to arrange that as well?”

Mycroft pauses, considering, and then reaches into his inside pocket and hands Sirko a business card. “These are the contact details of my personal assistant. Get in touch with her and she will take care of everything.”

They get up and as Sirko holds the door open for Mycroft, Mycroft extends his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Sirko.”

“Isaak, please.” He takes the offered hand and shakes it.

Mycroft studies the calm face and decides his future dealings with Torchwood will run a lot more smoothly. “Mycroft.”

*

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asks, slightly exasperated at trailing Sherlock all over the Hub to finally end up in this tiny room deep in the bowels of the building. All around them can be heard the shhh of the furnace and the groan of old water pipes.

“Research, John.” Sherlock helpfully supplies, his eyes flitting between three monitors as he seems to be reading each one independently and at the same time.

John rolls his shoulders and runs his hands over his face. He was really hoping that once he completed the last round of tests on Sirko for Jack that he and Sherlock might take a break and do a bit of sightseeing. The uber-interested look on Sherlock’s face, however, is readily putting the brakes on that idea. He sighs and steps in closer, scanning the monitors.

“What’s this one?” He asks, pointing to a monitor with easily a dozen tabs open. Right at the top of the page it says ‘Isaak Sirko’ and there is what looks to John’s experienced eyes as a very detailed rap sheet. Apparently it goes on for at least eleven more tabs.

“Boring.” Sherlock hits a key on the keyboard and that particular screen goes blank. John switches his attention to the other two screens where there is alternately a three-dimensional scale-drawing of several creatures John recognizes as aliens as well as genetic profiles, as well.

 “I’ve dealt with those before,” John leans over Sherlock’s shoulder and points at the anatomical model of a Kelfish. “Pulled a ring out of it… “John trails off.

Sherlock spins the chair he is sitting in around to face his partner. “What?”

“Never mind, Sherlock, just go back to your alien research.” John states as he rests his hands on the back of Sherlock’s chair. They are quiet for a few minutes as Sherlock flips through several screens simultaneously, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“It must have been right before I came home.” Sherlock says, turning back around and looking up towards John.

John sighs, completely unable to look away from Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah.” He nods and waits.

“Oh.” For a minute they remain where they are, the past as clear to them both as the future promises to be. Sherlock has said his piece; he has apologized time and time again with words and with his body, to the best of his abilities. He opens his mouth and John cuts him off.

“Sherlock, don’t. These moments will always be there, just let me deal with them in my own way.” John says, closing his eyes.

Sherlock nods, flips back to the Kelfish diagram. “Tell me about them.” He says softly.

John relaxes, moves his hands from the back of the chair to Sherlock’s shoulders. This is good. “Well, for starters, they stink worse than skips full of rubbish in the rain…”

*

The empty warehouse is so void of sound that a Radashian pin could be tossed from one end of the galaxy and back before the sound would be carried to human ears. Seven associates of the Khizgaar Master watch Toron from their places of subservience as he paces the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The Master cuts quite the impressive figure as his six foot six inch frame in its snow white uniform strides from one end of the place to the other. His heavy boots jangle as the nasty silver studs adorning them shake the concussion of each footstep.

“Tell me why that pestilent codpiece Harkness has Sirko.” Toron looks around the room, waiting for an answer. His caramel cream skin reddens a tad under the neatly trimmed black beard that adorns his jaw line.

“Sir, your Lordship. Those who let him go were dealt with swiftly, I assure you.” A giant blob of an alien says in a small voice.

Toron nods his head. “Just as well. They would serve a thousand hells for defying me, Gort. But that does not answer my question.”His husky voice is virtually Arctic.

Gort stares at his stubby fingers. “Master, if I could…”

Toron stops in front of him, peering down his aquiline nose. “You may speak.”

Gort takes a shaky breath for all of the members of the group. “Master, why do we need him? Are we not meeting your needs? Are the slaves we send you not good enough? Have we done something to wrong you?” The blobby alien pleads.

“No, Gort, _you_ have done nothing of the sort.” Toron can tell the exact second that all the beings in the room relax again. He stares at a green Kelfish who seems to shrink down into her smooth, damp skin.

“Tell me, my allies, when I came to you and asked you to join with me, did any of you have the audacity to actively insult me by saying ‘No?’”

Seven heads shake to the negative in Earth custom.

Satisfied, Toron sits down in the only chair in the warehouse. “Good, then. Let us discuss business, but first,” he takes the time to peer at each and every one of them, forcing them to consider themselves lucky to be alive. “One of you fetch me a white coffee.” His mind is quite occupied with Sirko and the payment Toron is going extract for the man’s dismissal of his very generous offering; Harkness has taken enough from Toron’s personal alliances and the Master is not about to let the irritating human have any more.

*

Greg is very silent on the way to the airport where Mycroft has a private jet waiting. Mycroft leaves him to his thoughts, knowing that Greg needs to mull things over his own way and does not always take kindly to Holmesian interruptions while chewing on his own thoughts and findings.

It is not before they are comfortably seated that he speaks up. “Are you okay about leaving Sirko with Torchwood?”

“Mhm?” Mycroft has been scrolling through his messages but puts his Blackberry down to look at his partner.

“Sirko. Torchwood.” Greg repeats. “You know what he is. He should be locked away and not been given license to wander about in search of…whatever.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s a criminal, Myc. He’s dangerous. You know it, I know it, and Jack Harkness does, too. He’s a killer. Hell, I could see you allowing some sort of hit man into Torchwood, but Sirko is so much worse.” Greg is just getting started.  “The Koshka Brotherhood? Myc, please.” He snorts. “Human trafficking, drug dealing and Lord knows what else. I don’t even want to know how many people have died by his hand, or by collateral damage. Considering how close you have _personally_ been to some of this stuff…you can’t expect me to stand idly by and watch him take up a second career as an _alien hunter_.” He practically spits the last word out.

Mycroft lets him have his say and does not interrupt. Greg is a law enforcement officer and although he is far from blue-eyed, he firmly believes in the system he’s sworn to protect. His unerring steadfastness is part of why Mycroft has come to care so deeply for him.

Mycroft’s is a world of double meanings, of bending and interpreting, and Greg grounds him. Oh, sometimes he finds his stubbornness exhausting, but Mycroft knows that he’s not the easiest of persons to be around, either, and if Greg is willing to put up with his flaws, then Mycroft can live with Greg’s quirks, too. So he patiently listens while the DI rants on until he runs out of things to say.

“Sometimes we need a blunt instrument.” Mycroft says, citing something one of his colleagues once said and watches with faint amusement as brown eyes narrow in suspicion. “You see, Torchwood deals with things that tend to be ‘outside the government and beyond the police,’ as Captain Harkness likes to phrase it. They encounter cases and phenomena that cannot be officially dealt with unless you want to create a major panic. Mankind is not ready for all of this, not yet. And while I do not approve of some of Captain Harkness’ decisions—“

“-or of his person in general,” Greg remarks and grins when Mycroft arches one of his arrogant eyebrows. “C’mon, Myc, when he was hitting on me you looked like you were ready to have him deported.” Greg says, effectively knocking some of the wind out of Mycroft’s monologue.

“Deportation? The idea has merit.” Mycroft returns the grin with one of his own and brushes his little finger over Greg’s knuckles. “Anyway, whatever my sentiments towards Captain Harkness, he is good at what he does.”

Mycroft pauses, letting his gaze be drawn inward for a moment before continuing. “What he does not understand, or care about, is the business side of such an organization and the politics that surround it, even though Torchwood Three is the smallest of the branches. He simply cannot be bothered. And what’s more, not one member of his small team of renegade experts can step up to him and he alone makes all the decisions.”

“And that’s where Sirko comes in?” Greg is enjoying this rare glimpse into the workings of Mycroft’s mind.

“Exactly. I have only briefly spoken to him but it is my belief that Captain Jack might be in for a surprise. If anyone can stand in his way without being run over, it’s him. Not only because of his physique or his violent past, but because of the fact that he has been subject to an experience not unlike the Captain has endured himself.”

Feeling the conversation drawing to a close, Greg asks, “And what was that?”

Mycroft sighs, a little regretfully, and Greg provides an answer for himself.

“…it’s need to know and I don’t need to know.” He shifts in his seat so he can look at Mycroft. “You know, sometimes I wish you were a mechanic. Or an accountant.”

“An accountant,” Mycroft echoes. “Dear me. Certainly not.”

Greg chuckles, leans back and closes his eyes. He is far from happy with the Sirko situation but if Mycroft thinks it is an acceptable compromise, then he will not wrackhis brain too much. He doesn’t do everything Mycroft tells him to do, but he has learnt that placing trust in the older Holmes’ judgment is not the worst thing to do.

*

Jack leans heavily against the back of his leather chair and stretches his legs out under the desk. Two of the strange gold rings lay there twinkling in the dim light of his office as he regards them with curiosity. They are identical in every way save for the fancy ‘S’ carved in the top of one of them. He studies them for a little longer before standing up and turning to the safe on the wall. It only takes a few seconds before he has the safe door open and a large box in his hands. Jack sets the box down beside the rings and proceeds to rummage through it until he finds what he is searching for.

The third ring.

It matches the others and once again Jack finds himself completely stumped. He has never seen anything quite like them. He picks up one after the other, turning them over in his hands and comparing them to each other. Nothing about them says that are anything other than what they appear to be, yet he has the nagging suspicion that their true purpose is hidden.

Jack stands and drops the rings into his pocket. He adjusts his braces and then runs his hands through his hair, thinking. Nodding to himself, he opens the door and steps out into the work area, where he surveys his team.

Tosh is still busy at the computers and now Gwen has joined her. Jack gives the ladies a small smile, notes that it sounds as if Owen is down in his lab making notes as he can hear Owen’s voice clearly as he speaks into his voice recorder. Sirko is on the couch, still perusing the newspaper from earlier. Only Ianto, Sherlock and John seem to be missing. Jack can see no reason not to include them.

“Ianto!” He shouts as he steps into the center of the room. Ianto speedily appears from wherever he was off to.

“Yes, Jack?” He asks.

“Ianto, would you please find John and Sherlock? I have a strong suspicion they may be down in the Tech room.” Jack has no such suspicion at all; he knows full well Sherlock disappeared down there as soon as he was able. Jack’s leather wristband started beeping alerts at him right after Mycroft left to let him know Torchwood’s network was being hacked.  He chuckles a little to himself, _as if_.

“Ianto! You may want to knock first!” He calls at Ianto’s back. Ianto raises a hand to let Jack know he’s heard and moves off towards the steps.

“Alright, the rest of you…and that includes you Owen.” Owen’s voice stops and Jack can hear the click of buttons as Owen turns his machine off.

“Yeah!” Owen calls up from the lab.

“Right. Staff meeting in five….” Jack looks in the direction Ianto just disappeared. “No, better make that ten. Tosh I need all the pertinent information to the weird rings we have been recovering.”

Tosh nods as she begins speed-typing.

“Can I help?” Gwen asks from beside her.

Jack spins on heels and starts towards the meeting room. He stops, moves into Sirko’s line of sight and says “You too.”

Sirko eyes him over the newspaper and eyes him up and down, then puts the newspaper down and gets up slowly.

Jack takes it as he has been heard and moves to the meeting room, absently-mindedly snapping his braces with one hand and playing with the rings in his pocket with the other. He is so caught up in the little mystery of the artifacts in his pocket that he forgets that he has not yet mentioned the newest member of the Torchwood team to the existing one.

*

Ianto raps his knuckles gently on the wall of the tech room. Sherlock and John both look over their shoulders at the young man at the same time. Ianto smiles briefly as his eyes flick over what little bit of information on the screen he can see over Sherlock’s shoulder, knowing full well that Jack is probably behind this in some way. There must be a reason to keep Mycroft and his brother apart when business is being conducted in Torchwood; a good reason, like world peace. Ianto is too polite to ask.

“Hey, Ianto.” John says.

Sherlock just gives him a quizzical look. “Jack has called a meeting and he wants us present.”

Ianto nods, “Yep.” He spins on his heel and leaves them alone.

John shrugs, “Guess we have been summoned.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, takes one last look at the monitor and clicks it off. With the other hand, he draws John’s head down to him and kisses him lightly. John chuckles and follows Sherlock back out to the main floor of the Hub.

*

By the time John and Sherlock enter the meeting room, almost the entire Torchwood team is already there. Jack stands at the head of the table. Tosh and Gwen sit nearest him on opposite sides; Owen next to Tosh and Sirko next to Gwen. Sherlock takes the chair on the other end of the table and John slides in between his partner and Owen.

Jack looks at them all expectantly but says nothing until Ianto comes in carrying a large stray laid out with pots of tea and coffee.  

Once everyone has his or her cuppa and a snack, Jack opens up by introducing them to Isaak Sirko as his newest team member. He is a bit taken aback that his big surprise warrants no more from any of them other than smiles and nods; he was so sure there would be an issue. Even Owen seems unconcerned.

“Alright, that was awfully easy.” Jack peers at his team over the rim of his coffee mug. “On to new business, then. The first thing I’d like to show you are these.” He sets the mug on the table and takes all three rings out of his pocket, laying them down on a square black pad in the center of the table. Almost instantly, a three dimensional holographic image of them appears large enough so that everyone can see the details. Ianto flicks off the lights and slips into the seat next to Sirko.

Sherlock rests his chin on his fingertips as he stares at the images.

Tosh stands and points at the rotating holograms. “At least two of these rings have been found in conjunction with a dead or dying alien. Owen has discovered that the young woman from the pub last night was only disguised as a human.” Each ring appears in three dimensions, slowly tumbling end to end and giving them all a detailed look.

“She was wearing a technologically advanced body suit. A few hours after we brought her here, the ‘human’ costume faded to a solid white, very thin and pliable material.” Owen says his eyes on the rotating rings.

At the end of the table, Sherlock reaches out a hand towards the black square. John shoots a questioning glance at Jack and Jack grabs one of the rings and passes it down to Sherlock. He takes it from John and holds it up to study it more closely.

At the head of the table, Jack studies Sherlock, more fascinated than he will ever admit.

Tosh moves the remaining pair of rings around the projector so that the tops of both of them are clearly visible. “This one is different.” Using her fingers, she brings the image up larger where it glows silvery-white against the darkness of the room. She virtually flips it so that the engraved letter on the top can be seen by all. “I can guess that there is a connection between them, but as of yet I have not discovered it.”

Sirko takes a deep breath and his eyes drop to the faint white band on his finger. Simultaneously, Sherlock says, “They are communication devices,” his deep voice easily covering up Sirko’s reaction.

“What?” asks Jack.

“Here,” Sherlock deftly turns the ring in his hand over to display a tiny button set into the seam of the ring. It is only clearly visible because of the flickering lights from the hologram. In bright light it would be virtually invisible.

Jack moves to stand beside Sherlock. He holds out his hand and takes the ring and pokes the button with his little finger. All three rings vibrate slightly and the one in Jack’s hand grows warm.

Gwen picks up one of the others. “The metal is hot.”

Tosh takes the one with the engraving on the top of it. “This one, too. Is it supposed to be a signal of some type?”

“I think so.” Jack answers her.

They proceed to pass the rings around the table until Sirko is left holding his own. His expression has not changed but blood is beginning to pound in his ears. “Jack, your office.”

Jack looks to Sirko, their eyes meeting over the table; he can clearly see the anger Sirko is trying to hide. “Meeting adjourned. See you lot tomorrow.” He does not stay around to watch everyone pack up, only takes the rings in his hand and drops them into his pocket as he walks to his office, Sirko very close behind.

The team members look at each other, confused.

“Well,” Owen says,” First day back at work sure is a short one. I’m not complaining.” He makes his way to the locker room to gather his things and leave for the night.

“Not complaining, either. Maybe Rhys will take me out for dinner.” Gwen rushes after Owen, and one by one the others are filing out of the conference room.


	8. Chapter 8

_“There is nothing new under the sun; it’s all been done before.”_

_-from the blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

_  
_“Meeting adjourned. See you lot tomorrow.” He does not stay around to watch everyone pack up, only takes the rings in his hand and drops them into his pocket as he walks to his office, Sirko very close behind.

When the big man enters the office, Jack gazes up at him from his chair with a slight frown on his face. Sirko stares right back, his expression stony, and rests his fists on the desk, the muscles in his forearms straining slightly as he leans forward to stare Jack dead in the eye. Jack gets up from his chair and mirrors Sirko’s posture, determined not to give in. Not one bit. He hasn’t lost many power games and he doesn’t intend to lose this one.

“You are not in charge here, Sirko,” he warns. “This is not the Koshka Brotherhood and we’re not running a bunch of gentlemen’s clubs.” The quotation marks as he says ‘gentlemen’s clubs’ are audible. “You know next to nothing about what we do and you’d do best to keep that in mind.”

“Withholding information from me does not help to bring me up to speed.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“The rings? I don’t appreciate sitting around there not knowing what’s being discussed.”

Jack takes a deep breath. “Isaak.” He sounds like he is talking to a particularly stroppy child. “You will kindly leave it to me what information I choose to share and not share with my team.”

“Jack.” Sirko mimics him. “You will not patronize me. Ever again. And you will not order me around in front of the team like you did back there.” His voice has taken on a deceptively velveteen quality.

Jack holds his gaze. “Oh my, I quiver with fear.” The sneer dies in his throat when Sirko’s pupils flare wide, and before Jack finishes thinking _oh shit_ , a large hand shoots out like a charging cobra and grabs the back of his neck while his upper body is slammed down on his desk’s cluttered surface and the tip of his nose is pressed against the edge of the keyboard in a most uncomfortable fashion. A strong forearm presses across his shoulders and his right arm is twisted in a steely grip. He wonders, not for the first time, how a man who is that big can move with such speed. His desk isn’t small and it should take even Isaak Sirko a few steps to get around it but Jack has barely seen him move.

Sirko kicks Jack’s feet apart and brings his mouth close to Jack’s ear.

“You have no idea what ‘being in charge’ entails, Harkness,” he says, his lips almost touching Jack’s skin. “Putting containment boxes into that vault of yours and chasing Weevils around Cardiff with that motley team you have assembled has nothing to do with being in charge. It’s all a game to you, the thrill of the chase, the pride of the collector, but what are you playing at? Just what are you in charge of?”

The soft, accented voice shoots straight into Jack’s system and he is finding it hard to concentrate.

“Tracking down alien life on Earth,” he manages. “Fighting for the future on behalf of the human race.”

“Fighting? I haven’t seen much fighting so far, unless you count that pub brawl with an injured Weevil and a scrawny girl.”

Sirko lets go of Jack’s right arm. Jack groans as he carefully moves his arm so his hand comes to rest on the keyboard. He pushes it aside, away from his nose.

“Mycroft put me in charge, alongside with you.” Sirko reminds him and Jack would swear he feels stubble brush against his ear. “And you’d do well to remember that.”

“Oh, _Mycroft._ On a first name basis already?” Jack spits and tries to move but finds himself pinned down mercilessly. His feet are kicked apart even wider and both his wrists are held down with ease. Still he won’t let go. “That was quick. But then, you so admired his efficiency.”

“What’s it to you?” Sirko retorts and Jack can feel heat emanating from the broad chest that is now mere inches away from his back. He arches up in a half-hearted attempt to free himself and his backside brushes Sirko’s groin. Jack hears the other man inhale sharply but Sirko doesn’t shy away. Instead, he presses closer and spreads his hands over Jack’s wrists, still holding them down. “What kind of game are you playing?”

This time, Jack does not imagine the rasp of stubble against his skin and he is fairly certain there’s something else that is no figment of his imagination either.

“I am not playing,” he says calmly, letting go of his tension. “Unless you’re up for it?” _Pun intended, big man._

Sirko grows very still and Jack holds his breath, afraid he has overstepped a border. Big hands travel up his arms until they come to rest on his biceps, and he exhales carefully.

“Up for what?” Something hard presses against Jack’s backside and he bites the inside of his cheeks to suppress a grin. He may not always be right but he hardly ever misses that kind of signal. “Are you asking me to dance, Jack?”

Jack feels Sirko’s lips move against his ear and it brings goosebumps to his skin. He starts when his arms are gently urged downwards to come to lie in parallel with his body and his braces are slid from his shoulders in one swift move but he offers no resistance whatsoever, not even when deft fingers snap his beltbuckle open. He tries to lift his upper body but Sirko places a hand between his shoulder blades to hold him down.

“My dance. I lead.”

After a short moment, Jack nods. He doesn’t surrender easily, in fact, he doesn’t voluntarily surrender at all, but there’s a time and place for everything, and right now, surrendering to the force of nature that is Isaak Sirko seems the sweetest thing to do, although he doesn’t want to reflect upon what that says about himself.

“Top drawer,” he offers, “please. Unless you want this to be painful.”

Pain is nothing Sirko has in mind right now so he yanks the drawer open and is torn between surprise and amusement when he sees the eclectic assortment of utensils and… other things. With one hand he rummages through the contents of the drawer while he continues to hold Jack down with the other. A bottle clicks open and Jack closes his eyes but opens them again when Sirko commands, “Lose your trousers.” That he can do. Quickly, too. “Spread your legs.” Jack hurries to obey.

The only sound that is heard is their breathing. Jack prays to whatever deity is willing to listen to him that his team has indeed gone home for the night, and that Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn’t choose this moment to sneak back in to try and hack into their computer system again.

He all but jumps when warm hands skim along his thighs and snake under his shirt to caress his skin. Maybe he’s imagining things but he would be willing to bet the other man’s hands are shaking, if only a little. When they leave his skin he feels lost and doesn’t understand why.

He hears the squirt of lube and braces himself. Sirko starts preparing him with swift, sure hands, as careful and gentle as only a big man can be, someone who has never had to prove himself and doesn’t feel threatened. A finger brushes his sweet spot, he moans softly and is rewarded by a low chuckle that makes what little blood is left in his brain pool south in a hurry.

The sounds of a zip being pulled down and a plastic packet being ripped open make him twist and look over his shoulder. _Damn._ Sirko is a big man altogether with broad shoulders, big hands and heavy muscles, and the part of him that is now being covered with latex is in perfect proportion. Lube’s a wonderful thing indeed. Their eyes meet and Sirko arches an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

Jack shakes his head, no, there won’t be, and puts his head on his crossed forearms. He hears some more lube being squirted into one of those big hands, then the unmistakable sound of Sirko slicking himself up. A slippery finger travels down the small of his back between his buttocks and without further ado, he feels the blunt head of Sirko’s cock push against his opening. He gasps as the tight rings of muscles are stretched almost to the point of pain and Sirko enters him slowly but relentlessly. He feels impaled but Sirko gives him time to adjust until the pain subsides.

Sirko looks down to where they are connected as he slowly pulls out of Jack’s body until only the head of his cock remains inside. He reaches down to spread the firm cheeks apart and watches himself slide back in. Jack arches his back to meet him, unafraid and unashamed, and Sirko bends forward to place a kiss on his neck. Jack tilts his head to the side, exposing the column of his neck, and Sirko kisses him again, this time applying some suction. Not enough to leave a mark but enough to make Jack draw a sharp breath and sigh. The small sound causes something inside of Sirko to crack open and the dance that started as a battle for power shifts into something else, something that involves acceptance and respect, giving and receiving in equal measure.

They fall into a rhythm that soon has both of them pant heavily. Each stroke and withdrawal of Sirko’s cock massages Jack’s tight channel until a pleasurable ache spreads through him and he starts pushing back to meet him stroke for stroke. The

smooth roll of Sirko’s hips against Jack’s arse picks up speed until he drills into him faster and harder and the office fills with harsh breathing and husky moans, and it smells of sex – salty, musky, almost palpable. Sirko reaches around Jack with one arm and curls his hand around the other man’s length. Jack makes a low throaty sound and grips the edge of his desk with both hands as he pumps into Sirko’s fist in rhythm with each thrust. Sirko slows down so he can kiss Jack’s neck again and thinks the feel of Jack’s skin against his lips and the salty taste on his tongue is something he would like to explore further.

Their dance makes them lightheaded and soon they’re spiralling towards orgasm, straining for their release, and it’s Jack who cries out first and spills himself all over Sirko’s hand. The clenching of his interior walls make Sirko’s steady rhythm become erratic and he feels his balls draw up, then with one last powerful thrust and a hoarse moan he stumbles over the cliff to meet Jack. His partner. His… lover?

He pulls out carefully, removes the condom and drops it into the waste bin, then stretches himself over Jack’s upper body and reaches for his hands. Their fingers intertwine and Sirko gently rubs his stubbled chin against Jack’s smooth cheek.

“You know,” he remarks conversationally, “I think now is a good time as any to say something that’s been gnawing at me ever since I stopped vomiting.”

“Mhm?” Jack gives him a puzzled look, clearly having difficulties getting his brain back into working order.

“You are committing a hideous crime against the most basic of sartorial rules.”

“Oh? And what is that?” Jack’s voice is just a little shaky.

“Never ever wear braces and a belt. Unless your trousers have the tendency to drop all by themselves. Then again, we have just established that’s exactly what they do.”

“I have the holster for my revolver on my belt.” It comes out a bit defensively but there is a hint of laughter as well.

“Nonsense. That’s what shoulder holsters are for. You have no excuse.”

“Not right now,” Jack confirms. “But with you draped all over me, here’s to hoping I won’t need a holster for the next couple of minutes.”

Sirko gives a small huff and his breath tickles Jack’s face. He pushes himself up and Jack comes back into a standing position with a grunt. He bends down to pull his boxers and trousers back up, zips and buttons himself but lets the braces hang loosely by his sides.

“Where did you put the, ah –”

“Waste bin,” Sirko supplies and fastens his trousers. Jack nods.

“Well,” he says.

“Well,” Sirko echoes.

They look at each other, then Jack seems to reach a decision.

“Have you formed a sentimental and emotional attachment to that small cot of yours?”

“Have I… no, I guess not.” A crooked smile forms on Sirko’s face as he studies Jack’s expression. “Why?”

Jack shrugs. “I was thinking… maybe you’d like to stay at my quarters tonight. My bed is bigger than that cot, and there might be just enough room for two.”

He holds out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation, Sirko accepts it. Again, their fingers curl around each other as if on their own accord and when their eyes meet, the rivalry is gone. Instead, there is a glimmer of hope and the potential for something new.

“Isaak,” Jack says.

“Jack,” Sirko replies.


	9. Chapter 9

> “Our daily existence is often one of unique experiences. Often these experiences are heralded by words we have always used but somehow missed their true meaning. For example, _worldwide_ may refer to a single planet, often Earth, or it may refer to all of the planets in any given galaxy. Like everyone else, I had to learn by broadening my own horizons. What seemed so special then is practically mundane now.
> 
> However, that is not to downplay the times when a team effort is necessary and even the only way to accomplish a given goal. By ignoring the mundane, it allows us to concentrate on necessary actions…”
> 
> -excerpt from the Journal of Ianto Jones

 

Owen impatiently waits for the door to roll open.

He glances at his wristwatch to see that it is still very early and notes how no one else seems to be here yet, hoping that they all enjoyed their night off as much as he did. He spent the night in the arms of a say-no-to-nothing woman from the pub who was gone before he woke up.

Owen pokes around the work space a bit, and then heads down to his lab. The dead alien from last night has been moved to the cold storage and so what few surfaces are to be seen are clean. Idly, he pokes at the power button of his keyboard. After a few seconds, the home screen opens up to the team’s medical records; he shrugs to himself and closes them out. Who knows why anyone would ever need the information Owen kept stored in here, except maybe John when he was searching for information to compare with Sirko’s records?

Isaak Sirko. When he thinks it, the name gives him pause. It is odd how quickly Jack accepted the man as one of them, but Owen feels like he is in no position to question the captain’s decisions, not now. He makes his way back up the steps and across the work space into the little kitchen. It is interesting that even Ianto isn’t here yet, he considers as he turns on the kettle. He is never late, so Owen wonders about that a bit. Behind him, the motor in the door grumbles to life and Owen guesses correctly that it’s Tosh when she calls out.

“Morning!”

“In here.” Owen answers.

“Hey.” Tosh says brightly standing in the doorway. “How was your evening off?”

“Satisfying.” Owen smiles as he gestures towards the kettle. Tosh nods and he fixes up two cups, handing her one of them.

“Mine was relaxing.” She says before sipping. “I did a little more research on those rings Jack showed us yesterday and I have to agree with Sherlock, they are communications devices.”

Owen nods towards the doorway. Both of them move into the communal space and Tosh settles down at her desk with the cup in one hand and the fingers on the other flying over the keyboard. After a moment, she sets the cup down and shakes off her dark blue jacket.

“Here, look.” She points to the screen.

Owen takes a quick look at the images Tosh is pointing at. They are interesting enough, but he is itching to get started actually _doing something_ again.

“Have you seen Jack yet?” He asks her.

Tosh gives him a strange look. “Owen, you were here before me.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.” He turns in a little circle next to her desk. “Thanks.” He heads to Jack’s office and lightly raps on the door, which opens a crack. Curious, he opens it a little wider and steps in. Then he sniffs.

 _Good God did Jack have an orgy in here?_ _That_ particular scent is entirely too familiar. The ventilation system in here really needs to be repaired. Soon. Deciding that he might as well be in for a penny as a pound, he looks around the room and sees what has to be a discarded condom in the waste bin. Owen wrinkles his nose and turns his attention to the desk. _Oh God. Just._

“Jack!” He huffs under his breath and scoots out of the office faster than he went in.

“Owen, are you alright? Is everything okay?” Tosh asks, standing up from her chair as he re-enters the work area.

Owen makes a face by scrunching up his own. “I don’t think you really want to know. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No, but…” she starts, her head turning towards the office.

“Trust me. Let’s go find something to eat.” Owen states.

Tosh pulls her jacket back on. “Alright, but you’re buying since it’s your idea.” She laughs and they leave together.

*

Isaak wakes to the feeling of feather light touches to his skin. He freezes for a second but his instinct immediately kicks in and tells him, no danger, and so he slowly turns around and looks into the eyes of Jack Harkness who regards him with a mixture of amusement and affection. Isaak stretches, feeling relaxed for the first time since receiving the news that Viktor went missing.

“Hey,” Jack says softly. “Sleep well?”

Isaak blinks his eyes and does a mental check. His body feels pleasantly heavy and something like contentment hums through his veins. He rubs a hand over his face.

“Yes,” he slowly replies, “I slept very well, thanks. You?”

Jack grins. “Like a baby. Haven’t been this thoroughly shagged in,” he pauses to think, “well, in a long while. Guess we can list this amongst your other skills then.”

Isaak snorts. “Glad to have been of service.”

Jack reaches out and gently tugs a small tuft of graying hair. For a moment, Isaak seems hesitant but then he, too, reaches out and touches his hand to the side of Jack’s neck.

“Stubble burn, I’m afraid,” he says, almost apologetic. “You have the skin of a little girl.”

“And how would you know that?” Jack teases but turns serious. “What are we going to do with this -” he gestures between the two of them, “with us?”

“Do you want to keep it a secret? I’m quite used to that.” Isaak tries to keep his tone light but feels his heart sink a little.

“No, there’s no secrets in the Torchwood team. Unless you -?”

“I’m not ashamed of what I am,” Isaak says firmly. “I was thinking more along the lines of company policy, you know, ethics and moral and so forth.”

Jack makes a derisive noise. “Company policy. Spoken like a true soulmate of the mighty Mycroft Holmes.”

“What is it with the two of you?” Isaak asks curiously. “I thought he was alright.”

“That’s because you think like him. All business and strategies and politics. He drives me insane. With you being his new best friend, my life will be so much easier from now on, and f or that alone I will be forever grateful that you have turned up.”

One of Isaak’s hands snakes behind Jack’s head and pulls him in for a kiss. “Oh but I don’t plan to make your life any easier, Captain Jack,” Isaak murmurs against Jack’s mouth. “I will go through your books and files this morning to get a picture of Torchwood’s dealings, and you will answer me for each and every discrepancy I find.”

“And I will.” Jack kisses him back, hard. “Time to get up, the team should be here any time soon, and I’d rather not be found out like that. I’d like to break it to them gently.”

Isaak rolls out of bed and quickly puts his clothes back on. Jack watches him and marvels at the easy grace with which the big man moves and feels genuinely sorry as inch by inch the tanned skin disappears under layers of clothes. Isaak looks at him and smiles, a real smile, not his usual crooked half-grin.

“See anything you like?”

“Oh yeah. Too bad we don’t have any time left.”

Isaak stops in mid-movement and gives Jack an inscrutable look. “I beg to differ but I hope there’s quite some time set aside for us.”

“I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Jack’s voice is warm and his smiling eyes meet Isaak’s.

“Nor would I,” the shirt is finally – unfortunately – buttoned up and Isaak nods to Jack. “I’ll shower and change. See you in the conference room?”

“I’ll be there.”

When the door clicks behind Isaak, Jack remains still for a few minutes and tries to figure out just what exactly has happened between them. He has the indistinct feeling that this might very well turn into something different than his usual arrangements… but he will not think about it too hard now. There are things to find out and Jack is anything if not ready for another adventure.

*

Toron is quite comfortable tucked into a padded bench in the dimly lit back corner of a rather seedy pub, seeming to melt into the shadows with his back to the wall. The Khizgaar Master easily passes as human, which makes him detest the species even more than he already does. He is dressed in a snow white three-piece suit, complete with a stark white tie; his gold-ringed fingers drum on the table and waits.

*

Sherlock gasps as his orgasm completely overwhelms him and reaches down to grab at John’s shoulders in order to stop them both from falling over. John’s fingers dig into his hips in an effort to remind the taller man about such unimportant things at the moment like gravity and physics.

The steam in the stall is causing Sherlock’s slicked-back, water-logged hair to curl at the tips; when John stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he is pretty sure that he has just rocked the world of this planet’s only consulting archangel…or pretty devil, he is not entirely sure.

Sherlock groans and gazes at John under heavy eyelids as he reels him in for a deep kiss. John falls against him and they somehow manage to keep their balance as the water continues to buffet against them. Sherlock’s entire body is relaxed after the abruptness of his second orgasm that evening.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth.

John chuckles, “I’m fine. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Sherlock groans and moves back in for a second assault, this time on John’s neck. “John,” he says between nips, “the water is growing cold.”

“Alright.”John shuts the taps off and they step out.

The hotel’s towels are fluffy and warm as they sit with their shoulders snug against one another on the bed. Sherlock’s fingers fly over the keyboard of the laptop open in front of his crossed legs, touching the letters with the barest whisper of pressure. John is watching as information quickly populates the screen with many of the facts and figures the detective obviously memorized when he hacked into Torchwood’s system.

John watches Sherlock’s eyes scan the screen with rapid precision. Since only he knows exactly what he’s looking for, John patiently waits.

“There.” Sherlock points at the screen.

John looks, but cannot makes heads or tails out of what appears to be endless strings of binary code. “And, that is?”

Sherlock does not move, but he does answer. “Remember how we discovered that the rings are communications devices?”

“There was no _we_ to that, Sherlock, I’m pretty sure it was all you.” John states.

Sherlock waves one hand in the air, dismissing it. “Look.” He jabs at the screen with his index finger.

“Yeah, it’s binary. I thought we were dealing with aliens.” John frowns.

“You are correct, John. Binary is a universal language. Did you not get the definition of _universal_?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in John’s direction.

John shakes his head. Leave it to Sherlock to come to grips with the whole thing in a matter of days—it had taken John weeks, and that was after the first time he had his hands guts deep into some creature that did not originate on Earth.

“Alright,” he chuckles, “tell me what it all means.” John waves his fingers at the rapidly changing ones and zeroes on the laptop.

“It means,” Sherlock faces John. “That the communications are currently going both ways.”

John will later be embarrassed by the five seconds or so it takes him to cotton on. By the time his brain catches up, Sherlock is already moving, half-way dressed.

“We need to get to Torchwood.” He tells John, sliding his feet into his shoes. John jumps up and they are out the door in less than ten minutes.

*

“ _Captain_ Jack Harkness, I presume?” Toron’s voice is a powerful roll of thunder as the human leader of Torchwood saunters into the pub. Jack raises his head and peers around the room, finally locating the speaker in the dark corner. He strides to the table where the man in the white suit sits calmly, his head bowed and his face hidden under a wide-brimmed white straw hat. The stark color of his clothing sets off the warm hue of his skin.

Jack approaches calmly, his every instinct screaming _alien_ when he stops; he does not take a seat, but stands almost at attention, annoyed for being pulled from Torchwood business for _this_.

“Who are you?”

Toron savors the moment and tilts his head upward enough that Jack can see his fathomless eyes.

“My name means nothing to you right now.” Toron slowly blinks his eyes as he scans Jack from head to boot soles, taking in the holster barely concealed beneath the heavy wool coat Jack is wearing.

“You addressed me. What do you want?” Jack asks with only a hint of an edge to his voice.

“Nevermind with the pleasantries, _Captain_. You have something that belongs to me.” Toron says, tilting his head at an angle.

“No. Can’t say that I do.” Jack shifts his weight.

“You are a fool then.”

Quick as lightning, Toron grabs Jack’s arm before he can draw his weapon. Toron’s grip is tight enough that Jack simply follows where he is pulled until they are outside the pub.

Jack twists enough so that they are facing each other; he could get out of this in a matter of seconds but he is just curious enough to see where it is all going. After all, if Toron wanted to attempt to kill him, Jack is certain he would have done it already. As they size each other up, Jack discretely presses a button on his leather band that will alert the team to begin tracking him in several minutes.

Toron's eyes flicker down towards Jack's wrist and then back to Jack'. He says nothing and masks the movement as if he is simply taking the other man in again.

For now, Jack decides to enjoy the ride.


	10. Chapter 10

> “ _Is this real? Is this just fantasy? Open your eyes and_ see…”
> 
> -Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody

 

By the time John catches up with Sherlock, he is already folding his lanky self into the backseat of a taxi. John slides in beside him and tilts his head to one side.

“What the hell was that?”

Sherlock shrugs and tears his gaze away from the window.

“Don’t.” John’s voice threatens to freeze the atmosphere inside the cab.

Sherlock backtracks so fast John can actually see it in his eyes and gives him an encouraging nod.

“The communication lines are two-way; whoever set those rings up to be such devices have been sending a signal to them over the past few days. However, a return signal could not be picked up until I clicked the button on one of the rings last night.” Sherlock tells him, his words falling rapidly in the small distance between them. As has been the case many times, he tells John more than the words falling from his mouth.

John comprehends the unsaid and gives Sherlock’s hand a squeeze where it lays on the seat. He lets go and they are silent until they step out onto the pavement in front of the hidden entrance to the Hub.

*

Jack regards the broad-shouldered and ham-fisted humanoid standing in front of him with a mix of curiosity and delight. Curiosity because he has never seen an alien quite like this one before and delight, well, for pretty much the same reason. He smiles at the big guy but only receives a frown in response.

Toron’s large hand rests on Jack’s shoulder as he speaks in his own language to the guard. Jack makes note of the heavy, guttural sound of it as he keeps his eyes on the guard, waiting for any reason to fight. Up until now, he has kept his hands clasped together behind his back and follows where Toron leads. He has been unrestrained the entire time he has been with the alien in the white suit.

The conversation between Toron and the guard wraps up and Toron pushes Jack’s shoulder lightly to move him forward. A large door opens and Jack finds himself being marched down a long, dimly-lit corridor, the sound of the door cranking upward echoing off the cinderblock walls. Jack squares his shoulders and keeps his hands behind his back, as those same impulses that always assault his senses in times like this fight for dominance in his mind: the quest for knowledge and the need to protect himself.

Being unarmed, protecting himself is not even a factor at the moment. Toron left his revolver on the ground under a bench outside the seedy pub. Probably not the most responsible choice, but it is certainly effective. Jack snickers.

“Captain Jack is laughing?” Toron questions, his accent growing clipped in his surprise.

Jack tilts his head up toward Toron and grins.

Toron frowns down at the human and wonders if perhaps Captain Jack Harkness is a few marbles short of a full set. After a few seconds, he regards the human as another curiosity and moves him forward again. They move in step through two sets of doors until they finally stop in a huge room that reminds Jack strongly of a premium pent-house suite in some five-star hotel, even though they are still on the first floor of whatever this building happens to be.

Toron gestures around the room, comfortable as it is appointed with several luxurious couches, winged-back armchairs and silken cushions spread about the wooden floor that has been strewn with a myriad of colorful thick carpets. Directly in front of them is a massive desk that is completely bare save for what looks like a flat monitor lying on its back on top of it.

Jack feels like he has stepped back in time as he gazes about the room; though it is a feeling he knows from experience, he grudgingly admits to himself that he has never seen anything like this before. It is almost a perfect mix of luxury from Ancient Egypt to Persia. He starts towards a particularly lovely couch but the broad hand on his shoulder tightens.

“Shoes. If you would be so kind.” Toron growls.

Jack is aware of the fact that he is a prisoner here, but his inquisitive mind needs to be fed, so he toes his boots off wordlessly, then leans down and strips off his socks as well and stuffs those into his boots. Toron nods towards the door. Jack carries his boots over and even hangs up his coat, all in all a civil guest.

Toron snorts at the idiocy of human customs and proceeds to ignore the sloppy way Jack flops down on the couch. He moves towards the desk at the opposite end of the room from the door and settles into his chair, unbuttoning his jacket at the same time.

“So what exactly do you want from me?” Jack asks as he threads his fingers together underneath his head, figuring that if Toron had plans on injuring him; the Khizgaar would have done it already. One leg dangles off the side of the couch.

Toron laughs, the tone of it an oily sludge on wet pavement. “Oh, Jack, apparently you have been around so much you automatically assume that is why I brought you here. Because of _you_.” Toron slides back into his chair in order to kick his legs up onto his desk. “As if I would contemplate such things with a human! Let me tell you something, _captain_ , you may be willing to entertain any species in your bedroom…your life is positively _vanilla_ when compared with the happenings onKhirz.”

“Sounds like a place I’d visit.” Jack swings his foot, his stockinged toes knocking against the wooden frame underneath the soft material of the couch. He smirks to the ceiling.

Toron slides from his desk to the back of the couch and before Jack can blink Toron’s black eyes are boring into his. “It is not you I want, Harkness.”

Jack frowns up at him and fiddles with his leather bracelet.

“I will take that now.” Toron states and holds out a hand.

Jack figures that his team is already making some sort of headway to come and get him out of this situation, so he powers it down and hands it over.

Toron strides back to his desk in order to toss the bracelet into one of the drawers Jack presumes are there. He slams it shut and turns back to Jack. “We have some time, and you have questions.”

Jack nods. “Since it seems I’m stuck here for a while, you could at least tell me about yourself.”

Toron frowns and studies the human for a moment, trying to calculate how long it is going to take Jack’s team to find them. “Fine. We will pretend to be civil.” He touches a button on his desk and requests something in his own language. “Drinks.” Toron says as Jack sits up on the couch with an inquisitive expression.

“Your mind, Harkness, it is always busy. I am unsure how you manage to avoid much more trouble than you find.”

Jack shrugs because he does not know how to answer that; though he does wonder how this alien seems to know so much about him. Just as he is about to ask, another door slides open and a very well-built and female Khizgaar enters carrying a tray with several clear glass bottles and a single bottle of Guinness. She stops beside Jack and offers him first choice. He takes the dark beer with a smile.

The woman then places the tray on Toron’s desk and leaves the room the same way she entered it: smoothly and silently. The sound of the door is covered by Jack cracking open the bottle after taking a second to admire the way the sweat from wherever it has been kept cool sparkles in the light from the room.

Toron watches him as he settles into one of the armchairs with a tall, thin glass of very viscous looking amber liquid; he takes a long draught of it and smacks his lips. “The finest blend from Reyon, Jack, you should try it.” Toron holds it out in Jack’s direction. “Certainly the best thing the Gribs ever learned to make besides more of themselves.”

Jack eyes the way the thick stuff sloshes inside the glass before shaking his head slowly. “No, thanks, I’ll stick with what I know for now.” He chooses to ignore the name of yet another possible planet and race he has not yet heard of; at the same time he wonders how that is even possible.

“It is your loss, Harkness.”

“So, go on, tell me.”

They both know they are stalling for time, but Toron decides it will be just as much fun to indulge the human for the moment. The big alien unbuttons his stark white blazer and crosses his right leg over the left one. Jack takes note of the muscular thighs that move underneath trousers so tight they seem only millimeters away from tearing at the seams.

Toron clears his throat, the thick drink changes the timbre of his voice slightly. “As I said before, you have something of mine. Well, something that should have been mine.”

“And that is?” Jack asks, closely observing every movement the Khizgaar Master makes.

“I will get to that. You were interested in who I am, I think, in the meaning of my race. Am I correct?” Toron asks, never taking his eyes off of Jack even when he drinks.

Jack nods and mimics Toron’s movements then sets the bottle between his legs with a slight hiss; the material of the couch has steadily grown warmer from his body heat and the coolness of the bottle gives him a bit of a jolt.

Toron smiles, his stern face lighting up in a predatory expression. “I am, if nothing else, a decent host, I would like to believe.”

Jack says nothing as Toron reminds him in such tiny ways that he is no guest here; he decides to play along.

“My home planet is Khirz. Our race, the Khizgaar, is primarily made up of two castes: the merchants and the producers. Below the producers are the laborers and above the merchants, well, there is me.”

Jack is paying attention, wisely refraining from interrupting.

“I am currently in what you would call a ‘turf war’ from an upstart young Master known as Bachiel. I have already crushed most of his soldiers, yet I have yet to get my hands on him, but I will. I have in my sights a single weapon that I will be able to use against him and therefore, there will never be an uprising against me again.”

“Toron, I don’t have anything like that. Torchwood has weapons, sure, but nothing…” Jack says.

Toron snarls. “Fool. I know the _trinkets_ you have stocked your headquarters with, Harkness. What I want is something powerful enough to destroy yet can be contained, controlled. I want a living weapon.”

Jack takes another drink of his beer then fiddles with the label around the top of the bottle, slowly peeling it off in order to hide the slight tremor in his fingers because he really wants the thought that just popped into his head to be wrong. However, if he is right, how in the world?

Toron interrupts his thoughts. “That brings me back to a, how shall I say this? Ah.” He leans forward, his broad hands practically covering the arms of the chair that he is gripping so tightly that his fingers have blanched underneath his tan skin. “I have a bone to pick with you. Specifically, the bone of a species I believe you refer to as Kelfish.”

“What?” Jack asks, completely thrown off guard.

“Some time ago, your _team_ ,” Toron says the word as if it is disgraceful to him. “Retrieved something from the body of a Kelfish; you kept said item. I would like it back.” In the space between them, Toron holds out his hand.

“Are you talking about that ring?” Jack tilts his head in Toron’s direction but does not remove his hands from the bottle. “I don’t have it.”

That is mostly the truth, anyway; specifically, he does not have it on his person at the moment.

“Where is it?” Toron asks as he sits back in his chair. Some of the tension in the room dissipates.

“Somewhere safe.” Jack twiddles the now-empty bottle between his fingers.

Toron considers this answer, knowing full well that it will not matter very soon. He opens his mouth to say something else when an alarm goes off.

Jack looks up from the beer bottle and makes out the sound of running feet beyond the entrance and exit doors to the room.

Toron stands up and looks over his shoulder at Jack.

“I do believe the party has started, Harkness.” Toron growls and reaches for Jack with both hands.

Jack acts fast, raising the bottle and smashing it over Toron’s head. Toron’s hands clutch tightly against Jack’s shoulders, effectively pinning him in place as the big alien shakes off the pain. A single rivulet of green blood starts down the side of his face and he snarls. Jack’s eyes widen as Toron smashes his forehead into Jack’s.

Jack hits the ground boneless as the doors open.

Several uniformed Khizgaar soldiers come through the rear door while Sirko, Owen and Gwen stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the front one, weapons leveled directly at Toron.

Toron smiles and holds up his hands.

“I’ve been expecting you, Isaak Sirko.” He says very softly.


	11. Chapter 11

Isaak freezes behind his weapon. Gwen, on his right, flinches a little at the sight of Jack on the floor; Owen, on his left, widens his stance and tightens his grip on the gun in his hand. When his gaze moves from Jack to Toron, a slight shiver runs up his back. Black eyes framed by a thin trickle of green blood seem to want to bore into his soul.

With the power of dynamite, the walls of another memory are blasted apart in Isaak’s mind: those black eyes boring into his from a higher vantage point. Toron had forced Isaak to sit in a low chair so that the big man had to look up at his captor. Darkness all around, only the feel of the chair beneath him and the solidness of the floor under his feet made it real. A deep, gravelly voice: _Sirko, if you join me, you may continue your life just as it was, except now you answer to no one **but** me. You would make a fine ally; I will pay you handsomely for your troubles—anything you desire is yours for the asking. _

Toron plucked him from what he now knows is the thing that Jack calls the Rift. Isaak’s only knowledge of the thing was a floating timelessness…he was sure it was Purgatory, so sure that he was finally paying for some of his worse crimes. But, wasn’t losing Viktor to Dexter’s blades enough punishment for anything he had ever done that the Universe or God or whatever needed to extract more?

But now, in this instant, it is as if the universe is giving him a chance to choose…something he has so rarely had the luxury of having.

_Old life or new life_

Isaak is virtually unaware of the sounds of a fight going on around him because all he can see is Toron’s menacing expression. It’s like standing on the edge of a deep precipice and the only way across is a decrepit rope bridge…wait a minute…

Every movement around Isaak and Toron seems to slow down and freeze: this is it. This is his chance. It will not right the wrongs from his former life, but it is _another_ way forward. He has already been given responsibilities not dissimilar than what he’s had before; he is fully capable of working with a team when necessary, and then there’s Jack.

Jack who is still lying at the floor at Toron’s feet.

If the rope bridge in front of him is too frayed and broken to go _forward_ …who says that he cannot go _back_? Back to the person he was _before_ his life got so far out of hand and he owed so much to so many that his days grew dark, dark enough that the only light was Viktor?

Isaak’s entire body is tense as he faces the Khizgaar Master. Toron tilts his head, rolls his broad shoulders and cracks his neck. The spell is broken. Isaak turns to see that Gwen and Owen are both held in place by a couple of Toron’s lieutenants who are in return holding rather nasty looking handguns at their temples. Gwen’s eyes are huge but Owen just looks resigned to his fate, or quite possibly bored with the entire debacle. It all happened so quickly that he missed the scuffle.

Somehow, Isaak knows he can end this.

“Will you let them go?” His voice echoes hollowly through the room. Gwen takes in a deep breath but Isaak is no longer looking at her, he is gazing directly at Toron. He takes three more steps closer to the master.

Toron turns his head from one side to the other, considering. Isaak wonders just how badly the alien wants him after all.

Isaak clears his throat, holds his hands out from his body and even goes so far as to drop the gun he is still holding. It hits the plush carpet with a soft thud. From out of nowhere, another Khizgaar soldier appears and picks it up, snarling mockingly in Isaak’s face as he does so. He fights the urge to knock the soldier to the floor with a good haymaker as his eyes are torn from Toron’s because _Jack just moved_. He shakes his head, no, maybe he didn’t.

“If I concede, will you let them go?” Isaak asks again, this time with venom.

Toron laughs. “What makes you think that I would give Jack up that easily, Sirko?” He asks before kicking back with one foot and nudging Jack roughly.

Isaak turns his head and braces himself. Something about that little nudge really gets to him…something about the _disrespect_ in that movement…

“What makes you think that I’d give up my _prize_ just to have you along? How do I know you wouldn’t turn and give all my secrets away to this universal scum?” Nudge. This time he uses the heel of his boot and Isaak can see a tiny line of red against the bottom seam of Toron’s trouser leg. Nudge.

“Stop.” Isaak says quietly.

Toron laughs again and the world around them explodes into motion. Gwen elbows her captor in the face but the Khizgaar growls and grabs her around the shoulder; Isaak knows she is very lucky that the soldier had better reflexes because if the trigger would have been pulled there is no telling where the projectile would have gone…or into which one of them.

Oddly, even with Gwen fighting, Owen simply stands there as if he is resigned to his fate. He has even cocked his temple toward the muzzle of the weapon resting against his head.

Isaak spins on the spot and lunges for Toron. Jack appears behind him with a revolver in his hand that he places against the back of Toron’s head. There is a thin stream of already drying rust-colored blood in the center of his forehead; it has been smeared by the heel of Toron’s white shoe. Isaak’s attention is pulled to it until it is all he can see for about ten seconds.

In that minute space of time, the two soldiers holding Gwen and Owen drop to the ground, one with a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead and the other with a fatal wound to his temple. Later, Isaak will reflect that he was concentrating all of his energy on Toron and the surprise of Jack standing up made him completely unaware of the sound of two guns going off simultaneously from the open door that was obviously looked over as they all reacted to the scuffle.

Toron raises his hands just as John Watson calls out, “Freeze.”

Isaak turns around to see John and Sherlock, side-by-side, both with guns trained on Toron. A corona of gold light encircles them and Sherlock’s coat is dramatically splayed out behind him. The setting sun at their backs is caught on the end of the shiny gun Sherlock is holding as Isaak takes quick stock of the room. “There’s still one m…” he starts.

He is too late, though, and the soldier that had grabbed Isaak’s gun is now racing away from them, towards the back exit.

BANG.

The soldier drops three feet from the door. Isaak is amazed when Sherlock and John just look at each other and shrug, grinning like loons, apparently not minding the three dead aliens between them. Gwen laughs as she recovers her weapon, Owen apparently doing the same. Only after there are now five weapons trained on him does Toron open his mouth.

“Choose, Sirko.”

“I already have.” Isaak states plainly and drops to his knees as the sound of five guns being cocked fills the air.

Toron, however, has already vanished, gone in a flash of tiny green lights.

From the doorway, John and Sherlock lower their weapons to their sides. John walks deeper into the room, taking a quick note of any injuries of the Torchwood team.

Into the space where Toron has been standing only mere seconds before, Jack steps forward and holds out a hand. Isaak takes the hand and _allows_ Jack to help him off his knees.

“Rise and shine, big man.” Jack grins cheekily.

Only barely paying attention to anything else that is happening around him, Sherlock strides across the office to where the Khizgaar soldiers' bodies lie propped up against one another. He studies them carefully, kneeling down to snag something glittering against the carpet with two fingers. He only lets the ring stay in sight an instant before it is hidden in one of his coat pockets.

“What the hell?” Gwen asks the room at large, carefully switching on the safety on her gun. Owen has dropped onto the sofa; he shrugs and looks around the room, his shoulders sagging slightly. Gwen takes note of his movements, but doesn’t say anything; instead she speaks into her earpiece to let Tosh—and by extension, Ianto—know that the immediate danger has passed. She listens for a few seconds and then nods, satisfied that Tosh has scanned the building and that Toron is certainly no longer in residence.

She sits down on the couch next to Owen and watches Sherlock as he crosses the room; in one hand he has his phone and the other is buried into one of the deep pockets of his coat. He stops beside John, who is probing carefully at Jack’s forehead with his fingers, checking for any long-standing damage.

“I think you are going to make it, Jack.”

Jack grins. “Thank you, doctor.”

“John, Lestrade’s got a case.” Sherlock states without looking up from the screen of his phone.

“Is everything okay here then?” John asks Jack.

Jack looks over to Isaak who says nothing and makes no move to answer in any way. Jack gives him a slight nod, shrugs and says, “I would say so. Come on, guys.” He gestures towards Owen and Gwen and strides in the direction of the exit.

At the door, Jack thanks Sherlock and John for all of their help. Sherlock gives a curt little head tilt, John shakes hands all around and then they are stepping out into twilight.

“I hope that wasn’t incredibly dull for you,” John offers as they turn in the direction of their hotel. “I can only imagine.”

“No, John, not boring at all.” Sherlock stops to give John the chance to catch up with him. He curls his left hand around the nape of John’s neck while the right one fiddles with the ring in his pocket, deftly flipping the piece of jewelry over and over.

John laughs at that and gives his partner a hip bump. They continue on down the pavement, each man enjoying the view in his own way.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack leans against his desk, stunned.
> 
> “Account activities? Personnel cost? Accruals?” He eyes Isaak. “What are you? A closet auditor?”

_Two weeks later_

Jack walks into his office only to find his desk occupied by Isaak who is squinting at the computer screen. In fact, he’s squinting at two screens. Jack frowns. When did the second screen get installed? He doesn’t remember asking for it, and he doesn’t remember allowing Isaak to just… spread out in his office, either. He clears his throat and when Isaak looks up, he gives him a pointed stare and raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve been taking over my office when?” Jack tries to sound stern but utterly fails as he takes in Isaak’s smart waistcoat and crisp white shirt that is left open wide enough to expose the strong column of a tanned throat. The skin surrounding the little mole that fascinates him so has a somewhat purplish coloring and Jack smiles inwardly, remembers clinging to his lover’s heavy shoulders and sucking the little purple mark into existence in a fit of frenzied passion. Parts of his body still ache in a most pleasurable way.

Isaak offers him one of his half-grins, pushes the chair away from the desk, stretches his arms and folds his hands behind his head.

“I have repeatedly asked to be assigned a work space of my own,” he says lazily. “Given the fact that you have turned a deaf ear, I have decided to use this office when you’re not around. Which is more often than not,” the last remark is accompanied with a pointed stare that matches Jack’s.

“What is it with the second screen?” Jack moves around the desk so he comes to stand next to Isaak. One screen displays the start page to Torchwood’s staff files, the second has a spreadsheet with various graphs open. Jack frowns again, a little puzzled. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m putting personnel cost together – salaries, headcount, duration of employment, cause of death, injury statistics and so forth. Also,” he opens another spreadsheet, “I’ve started to pull company data, you know, lease cost, car pool, maintenance and repair, law suits – really, Jack, we must work on our overall concept if we don’t want Torchwood to plummet into a financial abyss. Besides, where exactly are our funds kept? What about accruals? I need to see our financial files, too, as I have a feeling you have never really sat down to monitor account activities.”

Jack leans against his desk, stunned.

“Account activities? Personnel cost? Accruals?” He eyes Isaak. “What are you? A closet auditor?”

Isaak chuckles and swivels in the chair to face Jack. “In my former… line of business, it was crucial to keep books and taxes immaculate. With all that’s going on that is not precisely meant for the public, you just can’t afford to let things slide. We used to have legions of lawyers and tax advisors and what-have-you,” he reaches out and places one hand on Jack’s thigh, “but I have always made a point of checking certain things myself. Legwork, you see.” His voice drops just a little, and he gives Jack a look from under his ridiculously thick lashes, a little quirk that has yet to fail its desired effect where Jack is concerned.

With one fluid movement, Isaak gets out of the chair and comes to stand only inches away from Jack. He nudges his feet apart and moves closer until he stands between his legs, bends down and murmurs into Jack’s ear, “Let me tell you a secret.”

Jack swallows as one thumb brushes his cheek and a warm hand travels down and around his arm and snakes along his ribcage until it comes to rest on his back. He closes his eyes and wonders what’s next. Isaak gently rubs his stubbled chin against Jack’s cheek and whispers, “I have a university degree in business economics.”

Jack snorts and the spell is broken. “Tell me you’re joking.” He searches Isaak’s face but is met by a calm gaze. “University of Manchester, Business School,” Isaak confirms. “Magna cum laude.”

“Fuck me,” Jack says with a heartfelt sigh. “Our carefree alien hunting days are over. What now? A business plan, or annual budgets?”

“Leave all that nasty number crunching stuff to me, love.” Isaak pulls Jack closer. “As for fucking you, well –” Whatever he has intended to say is cut off as Jack suddenly stands up and kisses him on the mouth, hard. Their teeth clash together and Isaak feels his lower lip split but couldn’t care less as he cups Jack’s face with both hands and returns the kiss with just as much heat. Jack melts against Isaak’s chest and moans into their kiss, but the sound of voices filling the working space outside Jack’s office makes them break apart, breathless and regretful. Still, they look at each other and smile. This may not be not the time to play, but there is always the night to look forward to. And their nights have been interesting lately, to say the least. Not only has the Rift enhanced Isaak’s healing abilities, it certainly has done wonders to his refractory periods, too, a fact that Jack intends to take full advantage of.

Isaak reaches for his jacket and closes the files he’s been working on. He checks his wrist watch.

“Impeccable timing,” he says approvingly. “I am scheduled for a video conference with Mycroft in ten.”

Jacks rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, _Mycroft_ ,” he mocks. “Wouldn’t want to keep _Mycroft_ waiting. It’s a good thing Holmes has his policeman to play with, otherwise I’d be really worried. You two have so much in common already. Soon you’ll be exchanging tailoring tips.”

“His policeman?” Isaak asks, intrigued. “Oh, DI Lestrade? They’re lovers? Mycroft and Lestrade? Really?”

Jack wiggles his eyebrows. “Yes, the very same. Mycroft Holmes and his silver fox. Sorry, but you’ll have to make do with what you’ve got here.”

“Shame. Well, maybe you’ll grow on me over the years.” He puts on his jacket. “Oh, and the other thing? He has already given me his tailor’s address and will have his assistant make an appointment for me when I’m in London for this year’s annual strategy meeting.” He winks at Jack and saunters off in the direction of the conference area.

 _Saunters off_. Just like Mycroft bloody Holmes. Jack throws his head back and laughs.

Welcome to a new chapter in the history of the Torchwood Institute.

 

> _“Beginning something new always pushes us into territories we may or may not be comfortable with; sometimes, though, stepping out of our personal boundaries is enough to teach us that though we may not always be aware of the future, we can at least wrap a hand around our past and decide then and there whether it is acceptable to keep it as it was, or use it as a training tool and push forward into the unknown."_
> 
> _"A wise man once said that you may stand at the end of a stream and watch the water ripple once around the stone you have just skipped across it. It very well is possible that it will take you years or months to finally find that stone—and by then, you have found where the stream begins and that stone…well, it has become a pebble.”_
> 
> _-from the Journal of Ianto Jones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have had an absolute BLAST writing this and hope you enjoy it as much as we do :D Thank you all for reading and commenting and kudos and just being wonderful. Long live the FANDOM!


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